The Quality of Mercy
by ChristineX
Summary: Devastated by Ron's death, Hermione distracts herself by focusing on Severus Snape's mysterious demise. What she finds when she unravels the mystery will change both her life and the wizarding world forever. SSHG, T now, M later. Slight AU, DH spoilers.
1. Farewells

Author's Note: This will be canon-compliant EXCEPT for the Epilogue to DH, for obvious reasons. Like many fans, I found myself wishing the story could have ended in a different way. This is my take on what might have happened next.

* * *

One: Farewells

Hermione Granger sat upright in her chair, ankles crossed beneath her, gaze fixed directly forward. It was easier that way. If she stared straight ahead, she wouldn't have to make eye contact with anyone, wouldn't have to see the expressions of shock and sorrow and sympathy that surrounded her.

It had to be a nightmare. Her mind kept telling her that, in a dreary, tired sort of way, as if it were easier to repeat the same old weary denial instead of recognizing the situation for what it was. That couldn't be Ron lying in the casket of gleaming pale wood, a casket that would soon be buried in the earth not far from his brother Fred's resting place. Wizard-kind tended to keep their dead close to home; the Weasleys' burial ground lay a scant half-mile from the Burrow, in a glade surrounded by rustling beech trees. It was a lovely spot -- she'd allow that much. And she supposed it was important for Molly and Arthur and everyone else that the boys should keep each other company in the small cemetery, which was closely guarded by Muggle-repelling charms to ward against unwanted intrusion.

To one side she could hear Ginny sniffling into a handkerchief as Kingsley Shacklebolt finished the eulogy. Harry sat as still and white-faced as Hermione supposed she herself must be. Perhaps it would be better to let the tears flow, to allow herself to break down as everyone probably expected her to. But it was only through rigid self-control that she'd managed to survive thus far -- if she began to weep now, she had the feeling she might never stop. Better to sit here with burning, dry eyes, even though her unnatural calm had earned her a few askance glances.

Ginny's pregnancy was just beginning to show, and seeing the curve of her sister-in-law's belly made the self-recriminations rise once again in Hermione's mind. _I always thought we'd have plenty of time…I wanted to get that bloody degree…and now…._

Her thoughts lashed out at her. _And now you have nothing, except memories._

The agony welled up in her then, a burning ache that seemed to lodge itself in her throat, making it almost impossible to breathe. She took in a deep gasping swallow of air, and Harry looked past Ginny to her. His green eyes seemed almost impossibly bright behind the lenses of his spectacles, and Hermione realized it was because they swam with tears.

_Don't look at him_, she told herself. _Because then you'll dissolve, and you still have the whole reception afterward to get through_. Bloody barbaric practice, if you asked her, but it was the custom, and therefore something that couldn't possibly be avoided.

She swiveled her head forward again, just in time to see George and Percy and Bill rise from their seats to move toward the coffin, and then Harry pushed past her to join Ron's brothers as the final pallbearer. The four of them lifted the casket and began the slow progression toward the grave site. She could see the strain in their faces and realized they would not use magic for this, their final gesture of respect. No, they would honor Ron with the strength of their arms and backs, nothing more.

All around her people began to stand, and Hermione stumbled to her feet, her limbs feeling dead and numb after sitting for so long. She felt Ginny's hand creep into hers, although Hermione wasn't sure whether her sister-in-law reached out to offer comfort or to seek it. Whatever the case, Hermione clung to Ginny, the two of them supporting one another as the mourners filed off to the cemetery. She saw her parents come up to drop in behind her and Ginny, just as Arthur and Molly shuffled along directly behind the casket, both of them moving like sleepwalkers.

Her own pain seemed unendurable, so Hermione couldn't begin to comprehend what her in-laws must be suffering. They had already buried one son, seen two more maimed -- and now, to lose Ron to a dreadful accident, years after Voldemort had been defeated, must have seemed like the action of a most capricious and cruel fate. It wasn't fair.

_What ever is?_ a cool inner voice asked. _Life isn't fair. The Weasleys should know that better than anyone._

Hermione blinked, once, twice, three times in rapid succession, willing away the hot tears that threatened to overwhelm her if she gave them an inch of ground. Just a few hours more, and she could dissolve into a flood of weeping that would surely put the wet summer of several years ago to shame. Just a while longer, and this would all be over….

A fresh breeze came from nowhere, ruffling the loose tendrils around her face, bringing with it the scents of dry grass and wildflowers and all the other beauties of late summer that Ron would never see again. She'd pulled her hair back into a careless knot, thinking that having it up would be more decorous than its usual riot of curls, but the stray strands irritated her, made her wish she hadn't bowed to convention. Who cared what she looked like, after all, when her husband was about to be put in the ground forever?

He'd been so damned proud, too, so happy that he could drive a car like any other Muggle. Hermione herself had learned to drive soon after the War ended, mostly because her parents thought it was a useful skill -- despite their overwhelming support of her wizarding abilities, they'd never been terribly keen on broomsticks, Floo Powder, or any of the other means the members of the wizard world used to get around. And since she could drive, of course Ron had to learn as well. She wanted to blame herself, but she knew logically that Ron's desire to drive had only a little to do with her and quite a bit more to do with his father's preoccupation with all things Muggle.

Besides, it hadn't even been Ron's fault, except that, as usual, he'd forgotten to put on his safety belt. Easy enough to forget, she supposed, when one was overwhelmed with checking mirrors and seat positions and clutches and gauges and everything else driving a car required. If she wanted to assign blame, she supposed she could hand it over to the management of the delivery company that owned the lorry which smashed into Ron's shabby old Volvo. The signal had changed, the lorry driver had slammed on the brakes -- and they, old and worn, couldn't hold, and the oversized vehicle smashed into Ron's car just as he was pulling out into the intersection.

Everyone had been so kind -- the constable in the village, the horrified onlookers, even the stricken driver of the lorry, who kept saying over and over, "I tried to stop -- I tried -- I did --" And Hermione, who had been waiting for Ron to pick her up from the local library, could only nod dumbly and stand by while she watched the ambulance swoop in and take Ron off to the hospital. That was the problem with venturing into Muggle territory, she supposed. Perhaps if they'd been someplace else, he could have been immediately taken to St. Mungo's. Maybe he could have survived --

_Not possible_, her mind told her, still in that cold, even tone, as she trudged next to Ginny across the small field that separated the funeral area from the actual cemetery. The paramedics said he died almost at once. Might not have even felt anything --

She gave a strangled, hitching breath, and immediately felt Ginny squeeze her hand. Poor Ginny, to lose another brother, and now Ron would never get to see his niece or nephew --

That thought had to be stopped in its tracks. Later, when she was alone, she could dwell on all the might-have-beens, all the moments that Ron should have lived to enjoy, but not now. For now, all she could do was this.

They stopped at the grave, the crowd of mourners giving Hermione and Ginny room to move forward and take their place with the rest of the family. The coffin sat on the bare earth, awaiting its entombment. Just past it, Hermione could see the pale headstone that marked Fred's grave.

The Weasleys had never seemed to practice any religion, and so Hermione hadn't been quite sure what to expect from the service. The eulogy that Kingsley Shacklebolt had delivered and the various other speeches given by family members and friends alike had been secular in nature, and so she expected the final words, spoken by Harry, to follow in that vein. It was with some shock that she heard him say the familiar words of the Church of England's service, the same ones she recognized from her grandfather's funeral:

"…I am the resurrection and the life, and whosoever believes in me shall never die…."

Her friend's voice sounded deeper, more measured, as if reciting those ancient words had somehow helped him cross the final threshold from boy to man. Oh, Harry had suffered unspeakable losses in his life, but losing Ron had been like losing a brother, the final blow delivered long after anyone could have foreseen its coming.

Did Harry truly believe what he said? He had been reticent about his own experience with near-death, but something had happened to him, something that had changed him, made him seem certain some sort of existence was possible beyond this world. If that were the truth -- if Ron were in heaven or whatever else you wanted to call the afterlife -- then perhaps the knowledge might make this a little bit easier to bear. Of course she wanted Ron, wanted to be with him, but if she could tell herself that he waited for her somewhere beyond the bounds of the world, that his existence hadn't been cut short forever by the horrendous wreck which had interrupted their lives only four endless days ago, then maybe she could live through this. Maybe.

The breeze whipped tears to her eyes, but this time she didn't bother to blink them away. Someone behind her pressed something cool and slender and hard into her hand, and Hermione looked down to see herself holding a single white rose. A flash of pale hair at the corner of her vision told her it was Luna who had done so.

Harry had finished speaking, and the four pallbearers lifted their wands and gently lowered the casket into the hole in the earth that awaited it. Hermione stepped forward. Faces turned toward her, but she could not make out any individual features beneath the blur of tears in her eyes.

"I will always love you, Ron…my best friend," she said, the only words she could force past the tightness in her throat. Then she dropped the rose into his grave. It seemed to take a long time to fall.

No need of shovels at a wizard funeral -- the mourners all helped to fill in the grave, each murmuring the words under their breaths or bringing out their wands to move the earth to cover Ron's casket. Hermione knew she should do so as well, but somehow couldn't bring herself to pull out her wand and assist in transferring the dirt back into the gaping scar in the earth. The sound of the clods dropping on the oak casket sounded louder than thunder, and she wanted to press her hands against her ears, scream at them to stop -- didn't they know it was Ron they were putting down there in the dirt and the dark?

"Come away, my dear," came Minerva McGonagall's voice at her ear. "They'll finish it for you. Come back to the house."

Unable to speak, Hermione could only nod, then felt her former teacher take hold of her arm and Disapparate the both of them away from the cemetery, and back into the familiar chaos of the Burrow. Dimly she was aware of being pushed gently down into a chair, and then a cup of something warm being pressed between her cold fingers. Strange how her hands should feel so chilled, with such a mild summer day outside.

"Drink that," Professor McGonagall said, and Hermione, schooled in six years of following her Head of House's dictates, obediently lifted the cup to her lips and swallowed the warm liquid inside.

_Plain tea_, she realized. _Darjeeling, black, just the way I like it._

"I won't tell you any nonsense about it getting better with time, or that Ron's in a better place," Professor McGonagall said, in the same brisk tones she used to employ in her Transfigurations classes. "Because you know that's all twaddle. Perhaps he is, and aches do tend to become more bearable as the years go on -- my arthritis has taught me that if nothing else. But you'll have to decide these things for yourself."

Hermione opened her eyes wide and focused on her former teacher's face for the first time. Minerva McGonagall appeared mostly unchanged, although her eyelids looked red, and the lines around her mouth and on her forehead seemed deeper than Hermione had remembered. The Transfigurations professor had stepped in as Headmistress of Hogwarts for the three terms following the end of the War, but then decided to retire, saying she thought she had done enough. Hermione wondered suddenly what exactly Professor McGonagall had been doing for the past few years. Somehow she didn't seem the type for a quiet retirement.

"Thank you," Hermione said.

The sharp blue eyes didn't blink. "For what?"

"For not talking at me, trying to tell me foolish things that don't make sense." She lifted the cup and drank again. "I know it's everyone else trying to work through it in their own way, but I swear, if I hear one more person tell me I should be proud of what Ron accomplished, even though he was taken from me so soon, or how we were lucky to have even the time we did, considering how many people died in the War -- well, I think I shall go mad!"

"As well you should," Professor McGonagall commented. "People think they're trying to help, and often only end up making things worse. Ignore them as best you can, Hermione. Do what you have to in order to keep yourself sane."

Hands shaking, Hermione set the cup down on the kitchen table. Underneath its coating of polish, it was scarred from years of abuse at the hands of the Weasley children. She wondered briefly which rings and scrapes had been left there by Ron. Her voice trembled a bit as she asked, "Any advice on that?"

A look of infinite sadness passed over Professor McGonagall's face. "Let it hurt for as long as you need to. And after that, decide what you want to do with the rest of your life. Just make sure it's something worthy. The world expects nothing less from you."

* * *

It was full dark by the time Hermione returned home, to the small cottage about five miles away from the Burrow that she and Ron had chosen as their first home. It was close enough to the Weasleys that Ron hadn't felt as if he were separated from his family, but far enough away that they had some measure of privacy. It had been named Rosedell for as long as anyone could remember, due both to its location in a small dale and the rose garden that surrounded it. The wizard family who owned the cottage were only too glad to rent it to the young newlyweds, and Hermione had always thought she and Ron would be able to spend many years there together, although it could not have held a family much larger than three. 

After the funeral, Molly and Arthur pressured her to stay at the Burrow, and her own parents had taken her aside and inquired whether she would prefer to return home with them for a spell, but Hermione had resisted all their efforts and insisted on going back to the house she and Ron had shared. In the end they had acceded to her wishes, but with puzzlement and, in Molly's case, downright hurt. It seemed no one could understand her wish to be alone.

How could she make any of them realize that she would have to come back here someday, even if she hid at the Burrow for a fortnight, or even if she had run away to her childhood home? Sooner or later she would have to face reality and confront the empty cottage which, although none too large, somehow felt huge and hollow with her husband gone.

The Ministry had given her a leave of absence for as long as she required it, but Hermione felt that she would like to return to work tomorrow -- except for the fact that such a move would surely scandalize coworkers and family alike. That made no sense to her; at least by taking up her duties once again she could try to fill this enormous aching hole in her center. What on earth was she supposed to do with herself, with days that had no occupation but remembrance and regret?

She murmured the words of the candle charm under her breath, and all around the room tapers and pillars lit themselves, banishing the darkness. The cozy, familiar chamber took shape once again, from the chintz-covered couch -- which Ron had hated with a violent passion -- to the hand-me-down table and chairs her parents had given them. So many hours spent here as she had curled up on the couch with a book and Ron had played chess against himself, so many suppers shared with Harry and Ginny, so many happy days when the world had seemed a gift and each day a gleaming pearl on a strand that appeared unending.

Crookshanks jumped off the sofa and wound around Hermione's legs, his _meow_ sounding more plaintive than ever. Did the cat somehow know that Ron would never share this house with them again, that he had gone somewhere they couldn't follow? He and Crookshanks had maintained an armed neutrality at best, but perhaps the cat, always sensitive to Hermione's moods, had somehow divined the true reason for his mistress's despondent behavior of late.

"Oh, Crookshanks," Hermione murmured, then sank down onto the couch. Immediately the cat jumped into her lap and began to purr, rubbing his head against his mistress's stomach in an unusual display of affection. Absent-mindedly Hermione stroked the soft fur between the cat's ears, trying to let that be her focus, so that she didn't have to think of anything else.

But thought kept intruding. Of course she'd never been able to get her brain to slow down -- it always seemed to go a mile a minute, churning with thoughts and ideas and memories and plans. It had surprised her somewhat to realize that not everyone went through their entire lives with so much interior dialogue competing for their attention, but sometimes she did wish she could come up with a satisfactory way to shut it off, if only for a few moments.

The reception really hadn't been too dreadful. Harry and Ginny had stuck to her side like faithful cockle burrs, carefully guiding her away from anyone who could be trusted to say the wrong thing or even begin to suggest that if Ron hadn't been so infected with a love of the Muggle world (a love, these people would often insinuate, that extended to her, a Muggle-born), then perhaps he would still be with us today. Somehow Hermione had managed to nod and thank people for coming and murmur the correct things, watching the whole procedure as if it were happening to someone else.

Only Luna had gotten past the wall of glass that seemed to separate Hermione from the goings-on, Luna who always seemed to know to say the wrong thing (or right, depending on how one looked at it). She materialized at Hermione's elbow and said, "I rather imagine Ron and Fred are having a good laugh right now, looking down at everyone's serious faces. Where did you get that tie, Harry?" Then she wandered off, leaving Harry and Ginny to stare at after her before giving Hermione a furtive look, as if they weren't quite certain how to react.

The wave of pain was as frightening as it was unexpected. Perhaps it should have been heartening to think of Fred and Ron off in some afterlife together, cooking up some new mischief and amusing themselves with the ritual formality of the reception. But Luna's words made Hermione realize anew that Ron really was dead, that he would never again surprise her with Chocoballs from Honeydukes or steal the covers from her in the middle of the night.

She made an odd sound that sounded halfway between a hiccup and a gasp, then clenched her jaw. Harry had reached out to touch her hand, and she forced a smile and said, "You know, Harry, that really is a dreadful tie. What were you thinking?"

And both he and Ginny, who had looked both apprehensive and sympathetic over what they no doubt thought were going to be impending waterworks, had burst into nervous laughter that earned them more than a few disapproving stares. Well, perhaps it was inappropriate, but Hermione had thought they could honor Ron far more by laughing together and remembering their friend for who he was than going by about sober-faced as Wizengamot members. At least, that was what she hoped.

Mercifully the evening had come to an end at last, and Harry and Ginny Apparated with her back to the narrow lane that wound past Rosedell.

"You could come to London with us," Ginny offered. "I can see why you wouldn't want to stay at the Burrow -- Mum's smothering would probably drive you mad -- but we've got room. I still don't like the thought of you being here alone."

Harry nodded. "Really, Hermione, I'm not sure -- "

"It's all right," she said. "I've had enough clamor and sympathy. Right now I just want some quiet."

The moonlight had drained the color from Harry's eyes -- in the half-dark, they appeared a spectral gray. His face was solemn as he looked at her. "If you're really certain -- "

Hermione said firmly, "I am. Really, I'll be fine. I'm just going to have a cup of tea and go to bed."

Both he and Ginny looked doubtful, but it seemed they were ready to abandon the argument. "All right, then," Harry said. He reached out to give her hand a quick squeeze, and Ginny pulled Hermione into an awkward, lopsided embrace. Then they stepped back, and the night air crackled as they Disapparated.

Her protestations that she would be fine now seemed hollow, full of false confidence. The very air of the empty house seemed to press around her. True, Crookshanks offered a little comfort, gave some reassurance that Hermione hadn't turned into a ghost herself, but the cat's company couldn't hope to fill the searing hole Ron's death had left behind.

She knew she should get up and make herself that cup of tea she'd told Harry and Ginny she'd planned to drink, but suddenly she felt very weary, as if she didn't have the strength for even that simple task. Even the act of lifting Crookshanks off her lap seemed far beyond her.

McGonagall's words echoed in her mind. _Decide what you're going to do with the rest of your life. Just make sure it's something worthy. The world expects nothing less from you._

What that cause or occupation might be, Hermione couldn't begin to guess. Right now all she could think of was the gaping wound in her heart, the loneliness that she had just begun to comprehend. Finally she bowed her head and let the savage tears come, the sobs clawing at her with such violence it felt as if her entire body were being torn in half. Crookshanks fled to the far corner of the couch, watching Hermione with pale, wary eyes.

How could she even begin to think about the rest of her life, when she wasn't sure she could even get through the night?


	2. Discrepancies

This one came fast -- don't ask me why. So now it's up, despite ff.n being a pain (again) and screwing with document uploading. Luckily I now know how to get around that. I guess it wouldn't be ff.n if it weren't riddled with bugs! Thanks for the reviews, everyone, and for giving a new story a chance.

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Two: Discrepancies

Time passed, as it always does. Hermione held out for a fortnight before returning to her post at the Ministry of Magic. The empty days had become too much to bear after that. If her coworkers wanted to talk, she would let them. After all, she had never spent much time worrying about what other people thought. 

Autumn crawled along toward winter. Hermione welcomed the shorter days -- if she wanted to fall into bed at barely past eight, then at least she could do it in full dark instead of the endless twilight of late summer. And if she went into work early and stayed late, no one seemed to mind overmuch, except Harry, who would often pause on his way out, survey the mound of parchment on her desk, and then give her a faintly disapproving look. But after voicing his concerns a few times and being shot down on every occasion, he had apparently decided that nothing he could do or say would keep Hermione from working through her grief in her own way.

Oddly enough, she often felt nothing, just a strange numbness that allowed her to get up every morning, go through her daily rituals, and Floo into work as though nothing untoward had happened. It was as if part of her mind had decided that Ron was just off on extended Auror business, instead of sleeping in the cemetery that bordered on his family's grounds. She didn't want to examine her state of mind too closely for fear of waking the despair that must surely lie beneath the emptiness, like a trap buried beneath a pile of dead leaves. Better to leave it alone.

A week before Christmas she was sent on temporary assignment to work in the Office of Financial Affairs. Her regular post was in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, where she had been working diligently to better the lot of house-elves everywhere. However, one of the innovations Kingsley Shacklebolt had implemented involved the rotation of personnel once per quarter so that they could spend a fortnight in a different section and learn something of its workings.

She came into a somewhat depleted office; Financial Affairs didn't boast a large staff at the best of times, and it appeared most of its personnel had taken extended leave for the holidays. Hermione found herself sharing the shabby little subterranean quarters with only one other person: Lucrece Tibbetts, a pale witch of indeterminate middle age who didn't seem at all discommoded by her compatriots' exodus or the fact that she'd been handed Hermione Granger-Weasley, one of the Ministry's most notorious over-achievers, as her office mate during what should have been the quiet season.

"Well, if it weren't for you, I would have been all alone down here," Lucrece confided in Hermione as she ushered the younger woman to the vacant desk next to hers. "It would be too quiet. One starts hearing things." And she cocked her head and looked vaguely off to her right, as if she'd heard something scrabbling away behind the bookshelf in the corner.

Hermione wondered if Lucrece might somehow be related to Luna Lovegood, then dismissed the thought as uncharitable. "I'm sure it will be fascinating," she said in hearty tones.

Lucrece blinked her pale-grey eyes. "Fascinating? Oh, no, I doubt that."

_It's going to be a long two weeks_, Hermione thought, _time off for Christmas or no_. Suppressing a sigh, she inquired, "So what should I do first?"

"Oh, erm…." The older woman pushed back the sleeves of her dark-blue robes and sidled around the corner of the desk, appearing to eye the neat piles of parchment its previous occupant had left behind. "It looks as if the pension disbursements need to be expedited. Don't want people coming up short at Christmas, do we?"

Hermione shook her head. "No, I suppose not."

"Here's the list." Lucrece unrolled a long piece of parchment and spread it out flat on the desk in front of Hermione. "All you need to do is check the names and amounts against the master list in that ledger there -- " she pointed at a green-bound book that occupied the left-hand corner of the desktop -- "and then, once they're verified, send the list by owl to Gringott's. Any questions?"

_Just whether I'm going to be able to stay awake through this_, Hermione thought, but she only smiled and replied, "No, I'm sure you've explained it quite clearly."

"Well, I'll be right over here in case you do think of something," Lucrece said, then went back to her own disk and sat down. Immediately she picked up an enormous red-plumed quill and began scratching away in another ledger, this one covered in what looked like purple-dyed ostrich.

This time a sigh did escape Hermione's lips, but it was a very small one, and the other woman didn't seem to notice. Flipping open the green ledger, Hermione saw the long list of names, written in a crabbed hand, and hoped that her eyesight would survive the experience.

_Damn you, Kingsley_, she thought. _And I was doing so well with those house-elf education pamphlets I'd been working on…._

But she knew deep down that while it might have been the current Minister's policies that had sent her down here, he certainly hadn't come up with this particular assignment. No, she'd pin that one on Romilda Vane, who worked in Logistics and had never liked Hermione. No sympathy for Hermione's loss from that one -- Romilda was still unmarried, and looked daggers at Ginny whenever she stopped in to meet Harry for lunch. However irritated Hermione might be by her present situation, she'd never complain. She wasn't about to give Miss Vane the satisfaction.

The list was in alphabetical order, and fairly long; Hermione knew that Financial Affairs handled not only the pensions for Ministry personnel but for Hogwarts staff and faculty as well. It felt odd to see how large Professor McGonagall's monthly disbursement was -- handsome, but still not quite adequate, Hermione thought, considering all the services the Transfigurations professor had rendered the school and its pupils over the years. Still, Hermione knew that the pensions were based on fixed calculations involving years of service and salary during employment, and surely what Minerva McGonagall received every month was more than adequate for her needs.

Hermione worked her way down the list, finding only a single discrepancy. In the master ledger, one Sub-Minister Muddleston's name was scratched out. "What does a strike-through in the ledger mean, Lucrece?" she asked.

The scratching of Lucrece's quill halted. "For whom?"

"Sub-Minister Muddleston. In the Magical Enforcement Department."

"Dead," Lucrece said cheerfully. "Passed away late last month, I believe. Yes, make sure he's taken off the Gringott's list."

Grimly, Hermione drew a line through Muddleston's name on the parchment, feeling an odd twinge as she did so. Probably someone had done the same thing a few months back when Ron had died. She herself now received his pension disbursements, such as they were -- he hadn't been employed at the Ministry long enough to have worked up much of a balance.

Her throat felt a little tight, and she swallowed, hard. _You can't let it get to you_, she thought. _You've had almost five months to come to grips with this! _

The constriction in her throat eased somewhat. Taking a breath, she forced herself to move on through the "P"s and the "R"s and the few "Q"s on the list. She came to "S," and then stopped a few entries down, her heart giving an odd little thump at the name she saw there.

_Severus Snape._

"Erm…Lucrece?"

The older woman looked up and laid down her quill. "Yes?"

"There's an entry for Professor Snape on here." Thank God her voice sounded so normal!

"Yes?"

"But he's -- he's dead!"

"Is his name in the master ledger scratched out?"

Hermione stared down at the page. Severus Snape's name stood out clearly -- no strike-through, no attempt at erasing the letters. "Well, no."

"Then it stays on the Gringott's list."

For a second all Hermione could do was gaze mutely at Lucrece's placid features. Was the other witch a complete fool? "But I know he's dead," she said after a brief pause, her calm tone belying her roiling thoughts. "I was there when he died."

"Were you, now?" asked Lucrece, with a notable lack of interest. "Well, apparently the Financial Services Office feels otherwise. Go ahead and let it go -- there's a good girl."

Hermione decided to let the "good girl" comment pass for the time being. "But it has to be a mistake!" she protested. "How can you be disbursing pension payments to someone who's dead?"

"Oh, you'd be surprised," the older witch said, picking up her quill once more. "I find bobbles and mistakes all the time. What do Muggles call them? Glitches?" She scratched away at her parchment and added, "I've tried to mention that we need a better record-keeping system, that errors slip through all the time. Once I even said that perhaps we should try using a computer, just to see what would happen, but you should have seen the hand-wringing over _that_! You'd have thought I suggested serving boiled baby for dinner. At any rate, if his name is on the master list, then the Office of Financial Affairs considers him alive. Even if he is dead."

Feeling positively flummoxed, Hermione turned back to the master ledger and the Gringott's list. So they were paying out pensions to a dead man? What a waste of resources! And if Gringott's was sending out owls with a monthly payment (which was how she received Ron's benefits), to whom precisely were those owls going? If there was no one on the receiving end to claim the money, you'd think the owls would return with their parcels untouched.

Mind working furiously, she tried to recall what little she knew of Snape's family. As far as she could remember from her investigations into the Half-Blood Prince's identity, he had been an only child, but perhaps there was a cousin or some other relative who might be receiving his pension funds. Perhaps Harry might know something. He'd made a few attempts to restore the Potions master's somewhat tarnished image, more out of loyalty to Dumbledore than anything else. However, for the most part the wizarding world didn't want to hear it -- even from the Boy Who Lived, the one who had saved them all from Voldemort. Hatred was a hard habit to overcome.

Well, at least she had already planned to meet Harry and Ginny for lunch today. She'd bring up the mysterious conundrum of a dead man receiving pension benefits, and see what they had to say on the matter. Looking up from the parchment, she cast a surreptitious glance at the grandfather clock that sat in state in the far corner of the room and sighed once more. It was going to be a very long three hours.

* * *

"You what?" Harry demanded, after the three of them had seated themselves in a corner booth at the Leaky Cauldron.

"I saw his name on the list of pension disbursements," Hermione answered. "It has to be a mistake, doesn't it? I mean, he couldn't possibly be alive."

Harry's mouth settled into a grim line, and Ginny shot him a half-questioning, half-worried look. When he didn't reply, Hermione said, "Well? Is there something you're not telling me?"

"No," Harry said, sounding irritated.

At that point Tom came over to take their orders, with Harry appearing almost relieved by the interruption. However, the intrusion was fairly short-lived, and Hermione wasn't about to allow the conversation to get side-tracked.

"I mean, we all saw him die, right?" she asked.

"Yes!" Harry snapped, then paused, looking a little abashed. "Sorry -- look, that was a terrible night. I mean, there he was, bleeding all over the floor, and then he gave me those memories -- " Once again his mouth closed tightly, as if he were afraid he was going to betray too much if he continued.

Of those memories Hermione knew a little, although Harry hadn't wanted to talk about them very much. Just that they had contained the evidence which proved Snape really had been Dumbledore's man all along, and that everything he had done had been at the Headmaster's behest. There had been more, she was sure, but careful prying had elicited only a stony-faced statement that Harry didn't want to talk about it. After a while she had given up. Their years of friendship had taught her there was no influencing Harry when he got in one of those moods. She'd thought that perhaps one day he would tell her more, but as time wore on and it became obvious Harry wasn't going to reveal any more than he already had, she had tried to convince herself that perhaps it wasn't so important after all. Besides, at the time she'd had more important things to occupy her mind.

"But this Lucrece Tibbetts said it was likely a mistake, didn't she?" Ginny asked, her calm voice helping to ease the tension Hermione had felt begin to crackle between Harry and herself. "After all, we all have personal experience with Ministry mistakes, don't we?"

For a few seconds Harry said nothing, and then he managed a wry smile. "That's the truth."

Hermione knew she couldn't argue with that, although part of her wanted to. "I was wondering if maybe you knew anything about any relatives -- that is, perhaps the pension funds are simply being sent to someone in the family."

Harry hesitated again. "I'd say that's a likely explanation, except I don't know anything about him having any family. There was nothing in his memories -- I mean, he was an only child, and it didn't seem as if he had any cousins or anything like that."

Well, there went that explanation. Hermione wasn't sure whether to be worried or relieved. After a pause, she said, "So you must agree that it's quite odd -- "

"Oh, I'll agree with that," Harry said at once. Then the green eyes narrowed as he regarded her from behind his spectacles. "What does it matter, really? It's just a simple bookkeeping mistake, right? Why the sudden interest?"

As to that, Hermione wasn't quite sure she could give him an adequate answer. Surely it was merely an error, and all she really needed to do was leave a note for the true occupant of the desk she was using (one Magda Appleby, according to the nameplate which sat on the right side of the desktop) that she, Hermione, had found what had to be a mistake. She really should just leave it for the person whose real job it was to sort out the error and be done with it. On the other hand, how could she possibly allow such a mystery to go unsolved?

Hermione lifted her shoulders. At that moment Tom reappeared with their food and drinks, and she applied herself to her chicken pasty in order to cover her confusion.

"I mean, Snape certainly wasn't a favorite of yours, was he?" Harry asked around a mouthful of chips.

"I didn't have favorites," Hermione said, sounding prim even to herself. "All of our professors had valuable things to teach us."

"Even Lockhart?" Harry inquired, and Ginny giggled and almost choked on her own shepherd's pie.

"Even Lockhart…although I'll admit he was more a case of learning what _not_ to do. At any rate," Hermione continued sternly, "Severus Snape was certainly a very good Potions professor, regardless of the way he behaved, and what with everything he did for Dumbledore, he certainly deserved more than the end he got!"

At her words the sly grin melted off Harry's lips, and Ginny sobered abruptly. Harry looked around, as if worried that someone might be trying to listen in on their conversation, then said, "They never found him, you know."

"What?" both Hermione and Ginny burst out at the same time.

Harry sprinkled some vinegar on his fish and helped himself to a mouthful before replying, "That's what I was told. After the -- with the cleanup and everything, the Aurors went all over the grounds looking for missing and wounded people. I told Kingsley Shacklebolt where Snape had died, and he sent several people over to the Shrieking Shack to find him and bring his body back to the castle, but when they got there, the place was empty."

"Why on earth didn't you ever tell me this, Harry Potter?" Hermione demanded. Harry's revelations had sent an odd thrill through her, part excitement…part fear?

"I didn't see how it would matter. The man was gone, and we'd all seen him die. Probably some of Voldemort's Death Eaters went back to the Shack to dispose of the body."

"Or maybe he managed to survive, and dragged himself away before anyone could find him?"

Shaking his head, Harry replied, "That's a little far-fetched, don't you think? I mean, you were there. You saw what Nagini did to him. No one could survive that sort of attack without immediate intervention."

Logically Hermione knew that was probably true, but still she protested, "Yes, but he was the Potions master, after all! Perhaps he carried an antidote to Nagini's venom with him. Or perhaps he took a bezoar!"

Harry shot a sidelong glance at Ginny from under his eyelashes, the sort of look that plainly said, _Oh, here she goes again!_ However, he sounded calm enough when he said, "Maybe that would take care of the poison, but not those quarts of blood Snape left all over the floor of the Shack."

"Blood Replenishing Potion," Hermione said immediately.

"That our Hermione -- an answer for everything," Ginny remarked. "Listen, if you put it that way, I suppose it's possible…barely…but if he's really been alive all this time, wouldn't someone know about it? How could someone as well-known as Professor Snape just disappear?"

"Was anyone looking for him?" Hermione asked, in pointed tones.

Harry and Hermione exchanged another uneasy glance. "Probably not," Harry admitted, after a long pause. "People really wanted to put the whole thing behind them."

"Precisely," Hermione said, a feeling of triumph stealing over her. Was it possible? Could that "mistake" in the Ministry's ledger not be a mistake after all?

Ginny looked troubled, and Harry was making a show of not meeting Hermione's gaze. Oh, there were rivers of bad blood between Harry and Snape, no doubt about it, but she had thought he would have gotten enough past that to see this was a real mystery, and one which demanded some sort of resolution.

"Look, Hermione," Harry said at length, finally glancing up from the mess he had made on his plate, "it's all in the past. Maybe you should just let it go. Even if Snape is alive -- and that's a pretty big 'if' -- I doubt he's going to be thrilled if someone comes looking for him. Anyone who can stay hidden so well that people think he's dead obviously wants to stay hidden."

"You might think so," Hermione retorted. "Or maybe he's just stayed hidden because no one's gone to look for him." With that she dropped a few coins on the tabletop and said, "I have to go."

Harry looked slightly alarmed, and Ginny set down her fork and gazed at Hermione with worried brown eyes. "Where're you going?" Harry asked.

"To find some answers," Hermione replied, then gathered up her satchel and stalked out of the pub.

Instead of heading back to the Ministry, she made her way into Diagon Alley, marching resolutely toward Gringott's. Of course the goblins who ran the wizard bank were notoriously tight-lipped about the doings of their institution, but her brother-in-law Bill still worked there, and she hoped he might be able to provide some of the information she needed.

Hermione asked for Bill Weasley at the front desk, and after a moment's hesitation the goblin who manned the reception station told her to follow him. They moved past the endless rows of counters to a door which led into another long hallway. About halfway down the corridor, the goblin stopped at an undistinguished door of dark wood, knocked twice, then said, "Visitor, Mr. Weasley."

The door opened inward, and Hermione stepped inside. Bill looked up from his desk, his eyes widening slightly when he recognized his visitor."Why, Hermione!" he exclaimed, then stood and came around to greet her, pulling her into a quick hug.

Sometime during the exchange her goblin guide had melted away, and the door was shut behind her. Bill lifted a stack of parchment off a chair and said, "Go ahead and sit down." His scarred face showed some surprise at seeing her there, but he still smiled and asked, "So what brings you to Gringott's? Any problems with those investments we got set up for you?"

Hermione shook her head. "No, nothing like that. It's been -- well, you've been very helpful. I'm hoping you can help me with a few questions."

"Questions about what?"

"Well, erm…it's about the pension disbursements."

Bill asked immediately, "Are you not getting Ron's?"

"Oh, no -- nothing like that." Now that she sat here facing her brother-in-law, Hermione found herself questioning the wisdom of her errand. Perhaps it would have been better to go back to the Ministry and plan her strategy from there. But it couldn't be helped now. "No, actually, it's simply that I'm on temporary assignment in the Office of Financial Services, and I'm just trying to get the big picture of how it all works. After we send you the list of pension recipients, what happens next?"

He looked a little puzzled but answered, "That's not really my department, but I'm fairly sure that after we get the list from OFS, we arrange the transfer of funds. Some people just want the money deposited directly into their accounts here, and some get cash brought to them by owl."

Which was the option Hermione herself had chosen, mainly because it was a small enough amount that she used the cash for the odd errand and for pocket money. "So you take a different list to the bank's Owlery?"

Bill nodded. "That's right. We generally send them out the last day of the month so that people will have their funds on the first. But in December the owls go out on the twenty-first, just so everyone has the funding they need for the holidays."

Damn. That was only three days away. Not much time to plan. "So the list goes to the Owlery -- "

"Along with the money, usually in a pouch or small satchel, depending on the amount. Then the owl flies it to the recipient. It's very simple, really."

Simple on the outside, Hermione supposed. She would have to figure out a way to infiltrate Gringott's Owlery, discover which owl was being sent to deliver this month's funds to Severus Snape, and then follow it somehow. All in a day's work. Right.

"Well, that does sound awfully straightforward," she said, and smiled. "Just another question, though -- what if there's been a mistake, and the person the money's being sent to isn't there to receive it? What happens then?"

One of Bill's ruddy eyebrows lifted. "It comes straight back. We'll attempt to make contact by other means, but if we can't, then it's the recipient's responsibility to contact Gringott's and come in to pick up the money himself."

"And if someone's died?"

Almost as soon as she asked the question Hermione wished she could take it back, for a shadow passed over Bill's face, and she knew he must be thinking of Ron. Damn. One of these days her tactlessness really would get her into trouble.

But then Bill's expression smoothed itself somewhat, and he answered, "Again, the owl comes back to us. It happens every once in a while."

"But you discover the error quite quickly, don't you?"

"Of course," he said. Again he frowned. "What's this about, Hermione?"

"Oh, just research," she replied. "You know me -- always looking for things to keep myself occupied."

He didn't appear terribly convinced, but at least he had the good manners to say, "Well, I hope this has helped."

"Oh, absolutely."

She stood then and, feeling awkward, put out her hand. Of course Bill would have none of it, instead folding her into a clumsy embrace and asking, "We will see you Christmas Eve at the Burrow?"

"I wouldn't miss it," she replied, then gave him a shaky smile and fled back down the corridor and out into the bustle of Diagon Alley. The cool air outside helped to clear her head somewhat, and she reached into her pocket to check her watch. Good, only fifteen minutes late. Somehow she had the notion that Lucrece Tibbetts wasn't much of a stickler for punctuality. Still, she guessed she should hurry back. It wouldn't look very good to be too tardy on her first day in the Office of Financial Services.

And if she were really lucky, Lucrece would give her another mindless task, one that would allow Hermione to concentrate on the next step in tracking down the missing Potions master. Somehow she had the feeling that she wouldn't rest until she had some answers.

After all, what else did she have to occupy her days?


	3. Of Owls and Expeditions

First off, before I bitch about the bugginess of ff.n, I'd just like to say thank you to all my wonderful reviewers, and everyone who's added this story to their favorites and alerts. I know there's a lot of HG/SS stuff out there, so it makes me very happy to see how many of you like this tale. Now if only ff.n would get its darn document upload feature working so I wouldn't have to do the whole export workaround. At least I can get stuff on here, but it takes twice as long because I have to reformat everything. So if I somehow missed a paragraph return or some italics, I humbly beg your pardon.

* * *

Three: Of Owls and Expeditions

"All right, Crookshanks," Hermione said, trying to ignore the baleful yellow-eyed glare the cat gave her, "this really isn't going to hurt."

He swished his tail, the hair along his back standing up slightly.

_Did_ a Transfiguration hurt? She couldn't imagine that it did, or else Professor McGonagall wouldn't have had her students blithely turning mice into snuffboxes and whatnot. Still, that realization wasn't enough to make Hermione feel any better about what she planned to do.

No help for it, though. She raised her wand toward Crookshanks, who let out a startled hiss, just before his yellow eyes turned orange and his ginger fur transformed into the mottled brown and tan of a large eagle owl. Although not native to England, the species seemed to be preferred by the Owlery at Gringotts, no doubt because of its size and strength. After all, a smaller owl like Pigwidgeon or even beautiful, lost Hedwig would have had difficulty carrying heavy bags of Galleons to Ministry pensioners.

Crookshanks swiveled his head at her, flapping wings that seemed to take up most of Hermione's small front yard. She stepped backward, trying to avoid getting caught up in the downdraft.

"Listen, you silly cat -- I mean, owl -- well, anyhow," she continued, not wanting to look her Transfigured pet in the eyes, "it's not permanent. I just need you to fly over to Ottery St. Catchpole and come back. Ten minutes." At least this time, she added mentally. If her plan worked, Crookshanks would have to fly much farther than that.

Her words seemed to calm the owl/cat somewhat; Crookshanks ruffled his feathers but then settled down, allowing Hermione to approach him. She fastened a leather collar with a gleaming dark stone that hung from its center front to his neck, then said, "Just to the village and back. Do a good flyover, and come straight home."

He let out a tentative "_ooh-hu_" and spread his wings, giving them a few experimental flaps. After that he launched himself up into the dusky sky of a late midwinter afternoon, heading west. Hermione watched him go, oblivious to the cold that had begun to seep up through the soles of her boots from the muddy slush in the front yard.

If Crookshanks had been an ordinary cat, she probably would never have attempted such a thing. But because he was half-Kneazle and uncommonly intelligent (and part magical to boot), she hoped he would keep his wits enough in altered form to follow the simple directions she had given him. At least she could test the Seeing Charm she had cast on the stone that hung from Crookshanks' neck and the stone's mate, which rested in her left hand.

Hermione opened her hand to stare down at the black stone that lay in her palm. Its surface flickered with strange light, and she focused on it more closely, seeing the bare, wintry landscape flash by beneath the owl's great wings. The images were small but very clear, like something seen through the wrong end of a telescope: a curving ribbon of road, half-melted snow drifts from an unseasonable early storm plowed up against fence posts, then finally the pitched roofs of houses and shops and the tall steeple of Ottery St. Catchpole's church. Perfect.

When she had first begun to think how best to determine where Professor Snape's pension payments were being sent, she'd had the brief notion of Transfiguring herself before she realized that would never work. She was no Animagus; she would not have been able to keep her human intelligence in such an altered form. To her knowledge, no Animagus on record had an owl as his or her alternate state. Perhaps that was part of the reason why owls had been chosen as a means of message delivery -- the system couldn't be compromised by a witch or wizard pretending to be something she or he was not. But Crookshanks, who was already an animal…well, that was an entirely different matter. Although the Transfiguration seemed to have gone well, Hermione still couldn't be certain of her success until her pet returned to Rosedell.

The Seeing Stones were just a variation on the same Charm that enchanted two-way mirrors. It had only taken an evening's worth of study and preparation to get them to work. As she had set about her task, something Professor Snape once said in a lecture returned to her.

"It is not enough to be merely competent, or even talented," he'd remarked. For a second Hermione could have sworn those cold black eyes rested on her, but immediately his gaze had shifted to Harry and Ron, and he frowned. "The truly gifted wizard finds ways to improve on what has come before, to innovate, to advance. Not," he drawled, continuing to fix a malevolent black stare on Harry, "that I expect any such breakthroughs from this particular batch of dunderheads."

Well, she was innovating now. Whether Professor Snape would be glad to hear of her novel ways of using old enchantments was an entirely different story….

Crookshanks returned, wings blowing drafts of cold air into Hermione's upturned face. He settled on the ground in front of her and tucked his wings back against his body, then looked at her with an expectant air.

"Well done, Crookshanks," Hermione said. "You've earned a tin of tuna for supper."

The orange eyes narrowed slightly, and she hastened to add, "And some kippers as well." Then she stepped forward, removed the collar from his neck and stuffed it in her coat pocket, and pulled out her wand. Within a few seconds, Crookshanks was himself again.

At once he let out an annoyed meow and stalked over to the front door, where he sat on the mat with an impatient air. Clearly he wanted to be inside and given his supper as soon as possible.

Well, he had earned it. She opened the front door, letting out a wave of warm air, then followed the cat inside. Let him enjoy his dinner. She had plenty of time to let him know that his next journey would most likely be much, much longer, and that the tricky part was yet to come.

* * *

Luckily for Hermione, December the twenty-first fell on a Sunday, so she had no reason to come up with an excuse for not being at work. She did tell Ginny that she planned to go shopping with her mother, and she told her mother she was running errands with Ginny. Since Hermione's mother had no easy way of contacting Ginny (or vice-versa), Hermione figured her absence wouldn't be noted.

A combination of a Hover charm and an Invisibility Charm got her and a Transfigured Crookshanks safely into Gringotts' Owlery; apparently the goblins, while obsessed with security in the vaults below, hadn't done much to safeguard their owls' home base. Perhaps the Gringotts staff weren't overly concerned with the fate of the money once it had been signed out of their care.

Several of the Gringotts owls hooted and moved restlessly as Hermione passed them by, but none of them seemed inclined to do more than that. She had already prepped Crookshanks, telling him that she would signal as soon as she saw the disbursement for Severus Snape being readied. All she could do was hope that the goblins had a fairly simple procedure and that each delivery would be handed off to the nearest owl, as had been the practice at Hogwarts with the school's owls when students there hadn't had owls of their own.

Bill had told her that the pension payments usually were sent out between four and five in the winter months, to take advantage of the eagle owls' predilection for twilight and nighttime flying. If the journey was fairly short, it might only take one night, but somehow Hermione doubted that Professor Snape -- if he were even still alive -- would have concealed himself anywhere near London and its environs. No, the possibility existed that Crookshanks' trip might take several days. She knew her spell would hold, but would her poor cat retain enough of himself over such an extended period to return to her safely? Ever since his first flight she had tested him with longer and longer periods in which he wore the owl form -- much to his dismay -- and she thought he would be all right, but one could never be certain.

As she waited in the shadows of the Owlery, trying not to breathe too deeply of the dropping-scented air, Hermione wondered if she had gone slightly mad. After all, what sane person would put her beloved pet through such torments, just to find a man who had always rather despised her?

_That doesn't matter_, she told herself. _This isn't about you. It's about someone who sacrificed practically his whole life for the wizarding world, only to be shuffled off into oblivion. That isn't right, no matter how he behaved toward his students._

The thought encouraged her a little, and she settled back in the corner, hoping she did not have long to wait. Almost as if in answer to her wishes, the door opened, and a stooped, elderly-looking goblin entered. He clutched a piece of parchment that Hermione immediately recognized as the one she herself had sent over to Gringotts only a few days earlier. Behind him trundled a self-propelled little cart heaped with sacks and bags and satchels of various sizes.

Surely her heart was beating so loudly the goblin could hear it. Holding her breath, Hermione watched as the goblin began reading down the list of names. Since she had prepared the document, she knew how approximately long they had before the goblin reached Severus Snape's name.

"Malva Smythe," read the goblin, and Hermione tensed. An owl hopped forward to take the parcel the goblin held out. As the owl clutched the small sack, the goblin added, "Stoke Aldermoor," and the bird flew away through the large opening marked "NW" -- for the compass point, Hermione presumed.

She looked over at Crookshanks, and made a flicking movement with the index finger of her right hand. An unseen current coursed through the chilly air and hit the Transfigured cat square in the chest. He immediately moved toward the goblin.

"Severus Snape," he said, sounding bored, and handed over a largish satchel. "Dunhollow, Yorkshire." Crookshanks took the bag in his oversized claws, spread his wings, and took off through the north window of the Owlery, moving with purpose, as if he knew exactly where to go. Hermione had never been able to discover exactly how it was that owls always knew where to find their assigned destination, but whatever instinct or magical inducement led them unerringly to their objective seemed to be working for Crookshanks as well.

Time to go. Now that the cat was safely away with his burden, she could watch his progress from her own home. Still invisible, she drifted to the edge of the balcony, cast another Hover charm under her breath, and put a safe distance between herself and the Owlery before the goblin in attendance realized that someone besides a parliament of owls had occupied the tower atop Gringotts.

Hermione had planned to Disapparate into her living room, where a small fire waited for her in the hearth. Now, however, since she had been lucky enough to hear the name of Professor Snape's current residence -- or at least what the Ministry believed to be his current residence -- she thought it wise to try a little investigation before returning home. If she could somehow discover where in Yorkshire Dunhollow lay, perhaps she could intercept poor Crookshanks before he had to complete his long journey.  
But a detour into Flourish & Blotts and a quick perusal of the _Wizarding World Gazetteer_ revealed nothing, nor did a hurried scan of _Wizard Haunts: England's Most Magical Places_. Perhaps Dunhollow was a Muggle community, although Hermione couldn't imagine Severus Snape lasting long in such prosaic surroundings. Still, the notion was worth investigating, so she stopped in the closest library branch she could find, surrendered her driver's license and library card (which she'd acquired during her university days), and spent several minutes on a borrowed computer terminal searching every possible spelling of "Dunhollow," a search which turned up nothing. Refusing to give in to frustration, she'd gone to the geography section of the stacks and resumed her inquiry there, but again she found no trace of any name resembling the one the goblin had given Crookshanks. It seemed she would have to trust in whatever homing instinct led the wizard world's owls to their given destinations.

Dunhollow, Yorkshire. She was not overly familiar with the north of England, but somehow Yorkshire sounded like a fitting hiding place for the dour Potions master. Feeling faintly guilty, she Apparated into her living room and settled down on the couch, then pulled the stone out of her pocket to watch Crookshanks' progress.

He appeared to be moving quite rapidly, his large wings eating up the miles as he flew across great expanses of muddy fields that alternated with woods and winding roads. Dusk had almost given way to full dark. If it hadn't been for the recent snowfall, Hermione would have had some difficulty picking out any detail in what the Seeing Stone Crookshanks wore revealed. Even now the image grew dimmer and dimmer, relieved here and there by the twinkling lights of the towns he flew over and the headlamps of vehicles on the road.

No doubt he would fly most of the night. If she wished to keep watch over him as he made his journey, she'd need a little assistance. So Hermione got up off the couch, went into the kitchen, and made herself a pot of strong tea, adding to that some leftover chicken pie Molly had sent home with her a few days earlier.

The ticking of the clock over the mantel seemed almost hypnotic. Despite the tea, Hermione felt her eyelids begin to slip downward, and she started, forcing herself to pick up her mug of tea and take another bracing swallow. By this point she could see little in the stone except variations of darkness. Probably Crookshanks was now moving over open country, staying away from human habitation. Eagle owls had no real enemies, save human kind; it was better to avoid people as much as possible.

At some point the stone slid from her hand, and her eyes closed. As she fell into the darkness, she had the foggy realization that she hadn't thought of Ron in at least four or five hours….

Half-hearted sunlight poked its way in past the curtains, causing Hermione's eyelids to flutter. She blinked, then sat up at once, realizing as she did so that she must have slept the night through on the couch. Her stiff neck complained at once of its ill treatment.

Ignoring the pain, she retrieved the Seeing Stone and stared down into it, worried that Crookshanks might have already reached his destination. However, the image that met her gaze was of a deep pine wood, with no sign of human life anywhere. It appeared that the Transfigured cat had flown until dawn was near, and had then stopped in the most likely spot. Probably he would rest there for a good number of hours, which meant Hermione had time for a hot bath and a proper meal before Crookshanks resumed his flight.

She spent the day in little commonplaces, tidying the house (which was already impeccably neat), wrapping the remainder of her Christmas presents, working in a desultory fashion on her latest house-elf education pamphlet. After all, it would never do to get too behind just because she had been reassigned to the Office of Financial Affairs for a few weeks.

All too often, however, she would look down into the stone, compelled to see if anything had changed, even though logically she knew nothing much could have happened in the five minutes since the last time she had checked on it. Finally, at around three, Crookshanks appeared to alight from the tree in which he had taken refuge, and spread his wings once more. After refreshing himself with a freshly caught vole -- at which point Hermione set down the Stone, feeling her tea and toast lurch in her stomach -- the Transfigured cat resumed his journey.

He passed over more farmland and roads, then skirted the edge of a largish city Hermione didn't recognize. Here the snow on the ground hadn't quite melted, although the roads still looked clear. But the country slowly grew rougher, with hills rising from low valleys through which rivers and streams had cut their paths. Finally, just as dusk began to fall, Crookshanks banked to the left, descending into a narrow valley where snow gleamed pale in the shadows and a small ribbon of water wound past a two-story cottage with faded whitewash. Hermione spied a stone chimney, from which drifted a lazy stream of gray smoke.

Letting out another one of those odd "_ooh-hu_" calls, he glided onto the doorstep and shook out his feathers. Watching him in the Stone, Hermione held her breath. At any moment the door would open, and --

-- and nothing. Even though Crookshanks hooted several more times, the cottage showed no sign of life.

Feeling a bit anti-climactic, Hermione bit her lip and continued to stare into the Seeing Stone. Someone had to be there, after all -- smoke rose from the chimney, which meant the cottage was inhabited by someone. Although the place looked somewhat forlorn and terribly isolated, it didn't appear abandoned.

A flicker of movement at the periphery of the Stone caught her eye. Then as she watched, her eyes straining against the deepening shadows in the scene within the enchanted Stone, a tall figure strode across the dead grass of what passed for the cottage's front yard. The man wore a bulky dark coat that effectively obscured his outline, but she would have known that fall of black hair, that hook-nosed profile, no matter what he wore. Severus Snape.

The fingers which held the Stone felt suddenly chilled. Perhaps it was because all the blood in Hermione's body had been drawn inward, to fuel the increased beating of her heart. She hadn't even realized she was holding her breath until she let out a little gasp. So the Ministry hadn't made a mistake after all. Whatever his reasons for hiding himself so thoroughly, Professor Snape was no more dead than Hermione herself was.

He approached the owl on his doorstep in a casual way, as if he had done so a hundred times before. Which Hermione supposed he had, if he'd been getting a pension payment every month for the past five years. Then he bent and took the satchel from Crookshanks. He fished in his pocket for something -- Hermione couldn't tell what, because the image in the Stone was so small -- and offered it to the Transfigured cat, who appeared to swallow whatever treat Snape had given him. After that, Snape let himself in the front door, and shut it firmly behind him.

Crookshanks flapped his wings and flew a short distance away, to a twisted-looking yew tree about fifty yards from the cottage. Hermione had instructed him to stay put for awhile after delivering his package, as she had hoped she would be able to retrieve him and spare him the rigors of the return journey. So far her plan seemed to be working. The image in the Stone had been clear enough that she now had a firm idea of where she needed to Apparate. And the yew tree provided enough cover to hide her sudden appearance.

_Then what?_ she thought. _Do I just stride up and knock on his front door? What on earth do I say to him?_

Truthfully, she had been so wrought up in planning for contingencies and trying to make sure that her scheme was workable that she hadn't even stopped to think what she would do if Crookshanks succeeded in finding the Potions master's hidden home. And now that the moment had arrived, part of her quailed at the coming confrontation. It had been an easy escape, a way to occupy her mind, to keep her from thinking about how particularly empty her house felt, now that Christmas was almost upon her.

_Well,_ she told herself, _there's no reason you can't do a little reconnaissance first. You don't have to speak to him today, if you don't want to. But at the very least you need to get Crookshanks out of there. It looks like it's going to snow._

That thought led her to more practical matters. Hermione slid the Stone into the pocket of her jeans and went to retrieve her cloak from the hall closet. It had looked very cold in that hidden Yorkshire dale. After that she picked up her gloves from their resting place on her bedroom dresser and slid them on. She already wore sturdy boots; they would do well enough.

At least she didn't have to worry about summoning up a strong desire to reach her destination -- no sooner had she fixed the image of the yew tree and the surrounding valley in her mind than she Apparated there, popping back into existence a yard or so away from the tree. Luckily it stood between her and the cottage.

Cold air filled her lungs, and Hermione could see her breath stream out before her. Even in her warm wool cloak, she knew she couldn't stay out here for too long. She hadn't felt such a biting chill since she'd left Hogwarts six years ago.

"Crookshanks!" she hissed, and almost immediately she saw the ghostly shape of an owl launch itself from the upper branches of the yew tree and settle on the snow-covered ground next to her. He blinked his round orange eyes at her and ruffled his feathers; clearly he wished to be rid of his owl form.

The rational part of her mind told Hermione she should Transfigure the cat and get the hell out of there, but curiosity was stronger. "Just a minute more," she said in an undertone. Then she murmured the words of the Invisibility Charm and inched away through the increasing darkness, moving closer to Snape's cottage.

There really wasn't that much to see. On closer observation she noticed that a rough footpath wound its way past the house and disappeared northward along the bottom of the dale. The stream itself had not yet frozen over; she could hear it murmuring and chattering to itself as it flowed through its narrow banks. Besides the cottage, there was a dodgy-looking outbuilding a few yards to the rear of the house. Now it seemed empty, although she supposed if a Muggle were in residence it would have held a car or possibly a piece of farm equipment. That, however, seemed to be the extent of the homestead.

Truly, it was one of the loneliest places she had ever seen. Although Hermione valued her solitude, she couldn't imagine spending five years alone in such surroundings. Even her own cheery little cottage had begun to seem like a prison cell after Ron had died, the Burrow's proximity notwithstanding.

All the feelings she had fought to keep at bay seemed to rise up in her at that thought, and her eyes stung with su_dden tears. Damn it, _she thought_, how long is it going to be like this? How long before I can feel like a human being again?_

_Let it hurt for as long as you need to_, Minerva McGonagall had told her. The question was, did Hermione still need the hurt? How long would it take before she truly believed she had grieved enough for Ron?

_Perhaps one can never grieve enough_, she reflected, watching the smoke rising from Snape's chimney and feeling the freezing earth beneath her feet send its chilly touch up through the soles of her boots. _But perhaps I can give myself permission to let it go at last. Just because I don't cry myself to sleep every night doesn't mean I didn't love Ron. And surely if he loved me as much as I loved him, he wouldn't want me to spend the rest of my life in misery._

She looked upward then, watching as a dim little star broke clear of a cloud bank and twinkled bravely against the black sky. Somehow seeing it heartened her. The stars would always be there, no matter what happened down here on earth.

Abruptly the front door to the cottage banged open, and Hermione took a step backward. Severus Snape stood there, his outline very black against the glow of the candle- and firelight within. Although she could not make out his features, she could almost see his eyes narrowing as he stared out into the darkness.

Had he heard her Apparate onto his property? She wouldn't have thought so, seeing as she had been many yards away from the house proper when she had done so, but perhaps he had the place magically warded. If that were the case, it was definitely time to get out of here.

She turned to flee back toward the yew tree, but somehow found that her legs wouldn't obey her. To her horror, she looked down to see multiple thin cords wrapping themselves around her calves, then winding themselves up her legs and binding her arms against her sides. She stumbled and fell against the snow-covered ground.

Almost immediately Professor Snape was standing over her. Hermione heard him murmur the words to dispel her Invisibility Charm, and the tip of his wand glowed blue as he held it closer to her face. His black eyes glittered in its reflected light, and then she saw the thin lips lift ever so slightly.

"Well, Miss Granger," he said, "I'm curious to hear your excuse for this latest round of trespassing."


	4. Old Wounds

Well, I'd hoped to have this up earlier, but things have been a bit touch-and-go the past few days, so thank you all for your patience. And thank you as well for all your wonderful reviews -- I'm always sort of shocked when a story of mine gets this many reviews, especially when you consider how much all you HP fans have to choose from.

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Four: Old Wounds

Of all the ways Hermione might have imagined her first meeting with Professor Snape, she was fairly certain that none of them would have involved her lying on her back in the snow, her legs bound with magical cords, while she stared up into the Potions master's contemptuous face.

She said the first thing that came to her mind. "That's _Mrs. Granger-Weasley_."

His expression didn't change. "Indeed." Then his lip curled, and he added, "You could have done better."

Outrage boiled through her at his words, but in a way that was good -- if she were busy being furious with Severus Snape, then she wouldn't have time to stop and think about how frightened she actually was. Instead of making an angry retort, she said, in what she hoped was a properly irritated voice, "Are you going to take these cords off, or do you expect me to lie here all night?"

Without replying, he flicked his wand, and the cords unwrapped themselves from her legs and somehow slithered their way back into the slender ebony stick. It was a nice trick, even though Hermione didn't much appreciate being on the receiving end of it.

In icy silence she stood, then brushed the snow off her damp jeans. Of course the good Professor couldn't be bothered to give her a hand up. She had always continued to think of him as Professor Snape, even though he had served a year as Hogwarts' Headmaster. However, since she had spent that year wandering around looking for Horcruxes, the notion of "Headmaster Snape" had never really sunk in.

"And how is Mr. Weasley?" Snape asked, still with that disdainful lift to his voice.

She shot the Potions master a look as baleful as any he might have bestowed on a blundering first year. "Dead."

For a few seconds Snape did not reply. Then he said, in ungracious tones, "I suppose you had better come inside."

"Don't do me any favors, Professor," Hermione replied, wishing she could inject as much scorn into speaking his title as she currently felt. "I'll just retrieve my owl and go."

"Ah, so that's how you did it." He looked up in the direction of the yew tree, where Crookshanks still sat. "Infiltrated the Gringotts Owlery?"

"Yes," she said curtly, then called out, "Crookshanks!"

The Transfigured cat flew down toward her and landed a few feet away. He cocked his head and gave Snape a wary look. Without speaking, Hermione drew out her own wand, then restored Crookshanks to his former feline glory.

"How clever," remarked Snape, in a manner which suggested he thought her ploy was anything but. At once Crookshanks' eyes narrowed, and his ears flattened against his head.

"Not clever enough, apparently," Hermione said, bending down to pick up the cat. He let out a rusty meow but appeared resigned to being held. "I'll just be going -- "

"Not so fast." The Potions master fixed her with a slit-eyed look of his own. "I think you'll find it impossible to Disapparate so close to the house. Inside, if you please." If possible, his mouth thinned even further. "I want some answers."

Feeling fairly trapped, Hermione lifted her chin and then stalked past Snape and through the open front door of the cottage. Inside it was much warmer, thanks to a generous fire in the hearth. The interior of the little house was as plain and humble as its exterior although, as she noted right away, scrupulously clean. The ground floor seemed to consist of one largish chamber that opened up into a dining area directly past the living room, with a kitchen at the extreme left. Both the dining area and the kitchen appeared to have been given over to potions mixing or research, as herbs and other dried flora hung from the ceiling in both sections, and the Welsh dresser in the dining room was crowded with all sort of bottles and flasks in various shapes, sizes, and hues. Apparently Professor Snape's solitude had not been an idle one.

He indicated that Hermione should sit down on the faded sofa that faced the fireplace. Since she didn't know what else to do, she did so, settling herself on the center cushion with Crookshanks on her lap. The cat looked even less thrilled to be there than Hermione herself did and, after some determined wriggling, jumped down and stalked over to the hearth, where he lay down in front of the fire. No doubt he wished to shake off some of the chill from the cold Yorkshire night.

Out of nowhere Snape produced a sturdy brown mug and handed it Hermione, remarking in dry tones, "The universal panacea."

Somewhat mystified, she lifted an eyebrow, then sniffed at the contents of the mug. It appeared to be plain tea.

"Nothing poisonous, I assure you," Snape said, still with that ironic intonation.

Nettled, Hermione lifted the mug and sipped at the tea. It was quite hot, but it did feel good going down her throat. Her damp feet still ached inside their heavy boots. If she'd been in her own house, she would have pulled them off immediately and gotten her stocking feet as close to the fire as possible, but of course she wouldn't take any such liberties here in Snape's home.

"Now that we have the pleasantries out of the way," he went on, moving past her to sit in a threadbare wing chair situated to the right of the couch, "perhaps you would be good enough to explain what you're doing here."

_Those were pleasantries?_ Hermione thought, but she supposed it could have been worse. At least he'd brought her inside out of the cold, and he'd removed her bonds as well. Not that it mattered, she reflected with some bitterness, since he obviously had the place Charmed against unwanted Disapparation. And how like Severus Snape not to offer one word of condolence about Ron, or to even inquire why a healthy young man should have died at the ripe old age of twenty-three. Again she felt anger flare, and was glad of it. It was much easier to face Snape armed with righteous indignation instead of shamefaced embarrassment over being caught snooping around his property.

However, she also knew that handing the Potions master a lie would be useless. Hadn't Harry told her what a powerful Legilimens Snape was, second only to Voldemort? Besides, there was nothing shameful about the truth in this situation.

"Following a hunch," she replied at length, after sipping at her tea once more.

Snape scowled. Looking at him, Hermione realized the past five years hadn't been particularly kind. The lines that ran from his nose to mouth looked deeper, as did the furrow between his brows. And as he turned his head slightly to fix her with an unblinking dark gaze, she saw a few threads of silver glimmer in his black hair.

Since he did not seem inclined to speak, she continued, "I've been on a temporary posting in the Office of Financial Services at the Ministry of Magic. Imagine my surprise when your name came up on the list of current pensioners."

"So that was it," he said, and a flicker of annoyance passed over his face. "So much for confidentiality."

"Well, it did take five years for anyone to notice," Hermione offered, but Snape did not appear to be much mollified by her words. "And even when I brought it up, the regular OFS employee who was working with me tried to tell me it was a simple accounting error."

"Which you didn't believe."

"No."

"So you undertook the task of finding out whether the error was no error at all?"

"Yes," she replied, feeling increasingly uneasy. The erstwhile Potions master had continued to speak in cool, disinterested tones, almost as if he were discussing someone besides himself. She hadn't really expected him to fly into a rage, but she would have thought he'd show a little more reaction than this. _Then again_, she reflected, _do I really want to know how angry he probably is?_

That thought only increased her disquiet. He seemed far too calm for a man who had had a five-year exile destroyed by a witch playing amateur sleuth.

Still with that scowl etched into his forehead, Snape turned away from her and stared into the hearth. The dancing flames outlined the hooked nose and cast odd shadows under his eyes. For the first time she realized that he wore the familiar close-fitting coat from his Hogwarts days, although the cuffs looked frayed, and she thought she saw a patch on one elbow. As he shifted, she caught a glimpse of a livid scar that cut its way across his throat. It was mostly hidden by his high collar…mostly. Looking at that reminder of Voldemort's treachery, Hermione wondered how Professor Snape had managed to survive Nagini's attack, and whether she'd ever have the courage to ask him for the truth of the matter.

Finally he spoke. "Why?"

Well, that was a good question. Hermione had been unable to fully explain her motivations to herself -- how on earth could she ever articulate to Severus Snape her reasons for seeking him out?

She cleared her throat. "It didn't seem fair."

"Fair?" It was amazing how much scorn he injected into that one small word.

"Yes, fair." Gripping the mug of tea, she stared into the fire as well -- it gave her a good reason for not directly looking at Professor Snape. Crookshanks lay on his back in front of the hearth, paws in the air. He looked ludicrous, and Hermione almost shook her head. Trust a cat to bring you sensibly back down to earth. "I know what you did all those years, Professor. How you spied for Dumbledore, risked your life time and time again -- it just didn't seem fair to me that you should be forgotten, hiding somewhere and quietly collecting your pension payments, when the whole wizarding world really owes you a huge thanks."

At that comment Snape let out a short, humorless laugh. "I see the passage of time hasn't changed you, Miss Granger. One would have thought the world might have worn away some of your idealism by now."

"That's 'Mrs. Granger-Weasley,'" she snapped. "We're not in Hogwarts any longer."

His mouth twisted. "No, we most assuredly are not. So what happened to the bumbling Mr. Weasley? Did he finally blow himself up with one of his brothers' infernal contraptions? Or did he simply take on a spell he couldn't handle?"

Rage flared again, hot as the center of the fire which burned in the hearth. "You don't know what you're talking about," Hermione retorted. "It was a bloody car accident, and no fault of his, either." She stood abruptly, sloshing a bit of tea on the shabby rug that fronted the couch. "And I don't care if I can't Disapparate from your damned house -- I'll go ten miles on foot if I have to, just to get out of here!"

"Calm yourself…Hermione," Snape drawled. "That's a bit less unwieldy than 'Mrs. Granger-Weasley,' although I have always wondered what on earth your parents were thinking when they saddled you with that particular name."

_Talk about the pot calling the kettle black_, Hermione fumed, and she burst out, "I will not calm myself! Here I was trying to help you -- what the bloody hell was I thinking? You don't know what it's like -- you don't know how it feels to lose someone -- "

"Don't I?" His voice sounded silky, almost indifferent, but there was an edge to the question that somehow made the hair on the back of Hermione's neck stand up. "Now sit down, and don't be a fool."

For a second she considered defying him -- flinging the half-drunk mug of tea in his face, collecting Crookshanks, and marching out the front door. What could he do, after all? Restrain her bodily, as he had done out the front yard? Possibly, but she somehow doubted it. And although she felt certain of her own abilities, she knew that rushing headlong into a duel with Severus Snape was not the wisest course of action.

Jaw clenched, she sat back down. In frosty tones, she remarked, "I think you should apologize."

"Apologize?"

"For saying such things about Ron."

"I will not."

Hermione glared at Snape, at the harsh features, at the cold, unsympathetic gleam in his eyes. Really, what on earth had she expected? He'd never liked Ron, and he'd hated Harry, for reasons she'd never been able to completely discern. Finally she said, "Then don't expect me to apologize for trespassing."

"I somehow expected you wouldn't. You have about you the gleam of the righteous."

Oh, he was impossible. He deserved this ramshackle cottage, this gloomy dale, the utter exile he had forced upon himself. A man like that couldn't live with other people -- sooner or later someone would definitely want to kill him. For a split-second she almost empathized with Voldemort.

"At any rate," Hermione went on doggedly, feeling somehow as if he'd gotten the better of her, although she couldn't say exactly why, "my personal life has nothing to do with this. I suppose you had your own reasons for running away, but -- "

"Running away?" Snape broke in. "Is that what you think this is?"

"Well, what else? If you hadn't gone into hiding, there might have been people who would have vouched for you, people who would explain -- "

"Indeed? And who exactly did you have in mind as my chosen advocate? Potter?"

Had he been practicing Legilimency? Is that how Snape had known exactly what she had been thinking? "Well, why not?"

A corner of his thin mouth twitched. "For the answer to that question, I think you had better ask the famous Mr. Potter himself."

"I will," Hermione said at once, but inwardly she wondered if she would have the courage to broach such a subject with Harry after he had made it clear -- on multiple occasions -- that there were some topics he would never discuss. He had seen more in those memories than Snape's adventures as a double agent, but Harry had never said precisely what. And the few times Hermione had tried to speak with Ginny in private on the subject, her sister-in-law had been most evasive. At the time Hermione had thought it was because Harry had told his wife to keep his confidences in the utmost secrecy, but now Hermione began to think it was more likely that he had never told Ginny anything of substance, either.

"I'm interested to hear how that works for you," Snape said, and something in his tone had altered subtly. It seemed almost that he was laughing at her.

_Well, it wouldn't be the first time_, she thought, and her cheeks burned as she recalled how he'd said he hadn't seen any difference in her appearance after Draco had Hexed her to make her front teeth grow unnaturally long. The unwanted memory made her realize for the first time that she'd come haring out here quite unprepared -- in a monstrous, pilly old jumper of Ron's, baggy jeans, and muddy boots, without a speck of makeup and her hair pulled back into a vomitous old scrunchie. No wonder Snape had looked at her with such disdain.

"Does that mean I have a return invitation?" Hermione inquired, refusing to be cowed.

For a second he stared at her with almost an expression of surprise. Then his eyes regained their familiar hooded look. "I hardly think so."

"Should I send you an owl?" she persisted. "Crookshanks has shown himself to be quite adaptable -- "

"No return visits, no owls -- has it escaped your attention, _Hermione_, that I chose this place precisely because I did not wish to be bothered? And that I was doing quite a good job of staying away from the world until you began meddling?"

"Quite a good job," Hermione replied, and gave their shabby surroundings a penetrating stare. "So good, in fact, that I begin to wonder why you bothered to save yourself in the first place, if your intent was turn yourself into a ghost anyway." Ignoring the look of cold fury that glittered in Snape's black eyes, she leaned over and set her now-empty mug down on the rug, then rose to her feet. "If you would be so kind as to lift the anti-Disapparation wards?"

"With pleasure." The Potions master stood as well, and stalked over to the front door. When he opened it, a flurry of snow blew in.

Hermione called Crookshanks to her, and he came with some reluctance. Of course he didn't want to leave the nice warm fire to go out into the freezing night. She didn't much look forward to it herself, but anything was better than staying here under Snape's malevolent gaze. Really, what had she been thinking? That he would thank her for her persistence, announce himself a reformed character, and follow her back to the Burrow so he could join in on a jolly Christmas celebration? This wasn't some Dickens novel, for Merlin's sake.

With as much dignity as she could muster, Hermione lifted the cat and tucked him into a fold of her cloak, then marched past Snape without meeting his eyes. The cold hit her immediately as she crossed over the threshold, but the sound of the rising wind wasn't quite enough to drown out the emphatic bang of the front door as he slammed it shut behind her.

_Bloody bastard_, she thought, borrowing one of Ron's favorite phrases. _Can't even comprehend simple human kindness, or the need to right a wrong!_

But she would have to brood on the Potions master's multiple faults later, after she was safely home. As she turned to Disapparate, one part of her mind thought uncharitably that she wouldn't put it past Snape to have left the wards in place, just so she would be stuck out here in the freezing night. His desire to have her gone must have been greater than his need for revenge, however, for almost immediately she ended up back in the familiar warmth of her living room, with the magical fire that never went out until you lifted the Charm that kept it burning and the soft glow of candlelight all around her.

Crookshanks gave an outraged yowl and jumped out of her arms, going into the kitchen and making increasingly urgent mewling sounds. After a few seconds Hermione shook herself and went into the narrow, galley-style chamber to open a tin of tuna for the cat, whose tone made it very clear that he thought himself quite ill-used. Once he had devoured most of the tuna, she added some kippers to the bowl, trying not to wrinkle her nose in disgust. She'd always hated them, but they had been a favorite of Ron's.

As for herself, food was about the last thing on her mind. Hermione went back out to the living room and sat down on the sofa, then bent over and began to undo the laces on her boots in an absent-minded way. At last her feet were free, and she kicked the damp footwear under the coffee table. Better to let them dry there, she supposed, although she'd always gotten on Ron for doing the exact same thing. Then she settled back against the sofa, letting the warmth begin to work itself into her numb toes, as she brooded on how her encounter with Snape had gone so horribly wrong.

_Well, how could it have gone right?_ a reasonable part of her mind inquired. _He always was impossible. Why on earth did you think he would have changed over the past five years?_

True enough, Hermione supposed, but if she hadn't made such an idiot of herself by sneaking around…if she had just gathered up Crookshanks and gotten herself out of there as she had planned originally….

But that line of thought was fruitless. What had been done couldn't be undone, except perhaps with the aid of a Time-Turner. The device Professor McGonagall had lent her had been safely returned, however, and all of the Ministry's Time-Turners had been destroyed during the D.A.'s battle with Voldemort's Death Eaters. No, she'd just have to face the consequences of her actions unaided.

Still, Hermione was forced to admit that she'd botched things pretty badly. Perhaps she could blame some of her blundering on the single-mindedness that had gotten her into trouble on more than one occasion, but she'd also allowed her emotions to get the better of her. Never mind that much of what Snape had said had been calculated to wound -- she should have known he would choose that line of attack and ignored his jabs.

"Well, I won't let that happen again," she said aloud, and then shook her head at herself. As if there was even going to be a next time. Severus Snape had made it quite clear what he thought of her returning to see him. But the thought of staying meekly away somehow appealed to her even less than facing his wrath should she attempt to force her way into his self-imposed exile once again. What would he do, after all? Turn her into a toad?

Well, that was always a distinct possibility, but Hermione hoped that things wouldn't come to such a pass. Maybe it was time to attempt to get more information out of Harry. Of course she'd be seeing him Christmas Eve at the Burrow, but those celebrations were far too noisy and chaotic for her to make an attempt at getting any more confidences out of him, even if he did have a few too many glasses of firewhisky or Molly's excellent but head-turning punch. However, he'd also planned a Boxing Day party at his own home for the members of the D.A. who still kept in touch -- Harry and Ginny, Neville, Luna, Ernie Macmillan. Susan Bones had attended the previous year, but had sent her regrets for this go-'round. It would be a small enough celebration; perhaps Hermione could find an opportunity then to get Harry alone for a private talk.

With another one of those little pangs that seemed unending, she realized this would be the first time she would attend a holiday party alone. At every other gathering it had always been her and Ron. Once again her throat seemed to close up, and she began to question the wisdom of staying here alone at the cottage for the holidays. Perhaps it would have been wiser to have gone to her parents, as they'd encouraged her to do.

_It might have kept me out of trouble_, she thought, seeing again Severus Snape's cold eyes, the mocking expression on his face. It was quite apparent that his opinion of her hadn't changed much from the days when he called her an "insufferable know-it-all."

Why that bothered her so much, Hermione couldn't quite say. To be sure, she thought she'd done quite a bit of growing up during the last five years, and being relegated to annoying schoolgirl status by a former professor wasn't exactly encouraging. It probably would have been much wiser for her to be better prepared, to have gone to see him in proper robes and neatly groomed, to show Snape she was now an adult and worthy of respect.

The clock ticked away on the mantel. Hermione looked up, surprised to see that it was barely seven o'clock. It felt as if days had passed since she left this room to seek out Severus Snape's hiding place in Yorkshire. Certainly her world had changed since then. It was one thing to have a suspicion and follow a hunch, and quite another to see the evidence of one's investigation before one's own eyes. Too bad that evidence had wanted nothing whatsoever to do with her.

Suddenly restless, she stood and went into the bathroom. As she entered, candles all around her glowed into life in their various sconces and holders. Their combined light was ruthless in revealing the bushy mess of her hair, some of which had escaped the beleaguered scrunchie and hung in straggling tendrils around her face. Without the light cosmetics she usually wore to work, she really did still look around seventeen years old. And was that a dirt smear on her left cheek?

Hermione leaned closer to the mirror and scowled, then turned on the tap and ran a wash cloth under the water so that she could wipe away the offending smudge. That helped a little, but it didn't really matter what she did now -- it was too late to change what Professor Snape thought of her…

…or was it? First impressions, as they said, were lasting, but what if that first impression happened to be overlaid by a second, and a third? Her mother had been on her forever to make a few minor alterations to her appearance, but Hermione had always stubbornly resisted, saying that she didn't have the time to fuss with such things, and that Ron certainly didn't seem to care on way or the other. But Ron was gone, and perhaps it was time to make some changes.

Suddenly resolved, she went back out to the living room and fished the cellular phone out of her satchel. Rosedell being a wizard cottage, it didn't have a land line, but Hermione had bought the portable phone in London so that she could keep in better touch with her parents. Ron of course had been fascinated by the device -- she'd also narrowly missed having Arthur Weasley take the thing apart during one of her visits to the Burrow -- and on more than one occasion she'd had to retrieve it from an odd room in the house where Ron had taken it to look at it more closely. _No danger of that now_, she thought with some sadness.

The phone picked up on the second ring. "Hello, Mum?" Hermione asked. "I've decided to take you up on your offer -- "


	5. Secrets and Lies

Well, here I was on stuck at home on Labor Day weekend, with nothing to do except hide inside in the air conditioning (it's been over a hundred degrees here for almost the past week), so I decided to write some more. And lo and behold! We have another chapter. Big fat one, too. :-)

Thank you to everyone for your reviews -- and thank you to Adrian Johnston, who wrote the music for _Becoming Jane_, which I played incessantly during this chapter. (I think the track titled "Going to the Ball" is the perfect theme for this story.)

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Five: Secrets and Lies

"Bloody hell, Hermione!" George Weasley exclaimed. "What did you do to yourself?"

Hermione put a self-conscious hand to her head. "You don't like it?"

He appeared somewhat taken aback. "No -- I mean, actually, it looks really good. I wasn't expecting that."

Resisting the urge to laugh, Hermione raised an eyebrow. "So are you insinuating that normally I _don't_ look good?"

"No, I -- well, erm -- " He floundered for a few seconds, then said, in exasperated tones, "Oh, just come on in, then!"

Grinning, Hermione moved past him and into the little anteroom just inside the front door. There she paused to take off her cloak and hang it from the stand reserved for that purpose. A loud clamor of voices toward the back of the house told her everyone had, as usual, congregated in the kitchen. With George tagging along behind her, she headed off in that direction. His reaction had been more than satisfactory, but she figured it couldn't hurt to get a few female opinions as well. Ever since she'd left the hairdresser's earlier that afternoon, she'd caught herself sneaking surreptitious looks in the mirror, her mother's car windows -- almost any reflective surface which would tell her that, although the stylist her mother had brought Hermione to for the all-important hair appointment might be a Muggle, he'd certainly worked some sort of magic on her unruly locks.

When she entered the kitchen, everyone turned toward her, and the multiple conversations that had been in progress abruptly halted.

Molly was the first to speak. "Hermione, dear!" she said, giving her daughter-in-law a warm if slightly shocked smile. "Don't you look nice -- something different about your hair, is it?"

"For once it doesn't look as if you stuck your finger in a light socket," Harry commented, and Ginny elbowed him in the ribs. Around him other members of the Weasley clan assumed friendly -- although somewhat puzzled -- grins. Hermione doubted that any of them understood the reference.

"Thanks, Harry," Hermione replied. "I should have known you'd go right to the heart of the matter."

"It does look very nice," Ginny said at once. "Did you go back to using the Sleekeazy Hair Potion?"

"No -- what you see before you is the product of pure Muggle know-how."

Molly made a skeptical noise before returning her attention to the all-important act of basting the goose. Although she would never come out and say it, she possessed the usual wizard-born distrust of all things Muggle. Privately, Hermione had come to realize that -- in some matters at least -- nonmagical folk had a leg up on the wizarding world. She knew she wasn't the only young witch to use Muggle cosmetics, nor was she the only one who could be seen sporting distinctly un-wizard-like garb for more casual occasions. Of course, she had the advantage (or disadvantage, as some might say) of having been raised a Muggle for the first eleven years of her life. For her the nonmagical world was neither foreign nor dangerous, but, as with everything else, filled with a mixture of the good, the bad, and the occasionally useful.

Her mother had finally convinced her to visit the stylist, saying the man was a genius with curly hair. Hermione had decided the worst that could happen would be she would hate her new hairstyle, in which case she'd either research charms to make her hair grow quickly or invest in some hats. However, in this case her mother had spoken the simple truth. Although frightening amounts of hair had fallen on the floor during the process, by the time Clive was done snipping away Hermione's hair hadn't looked much shorter, but it was far less bushy. After warning her against ever lifting a brush to her head again -- "and I will chase you all the way out to Otter's Ski Pole or whatever little village you're hiding in and spank you with that brush if you do -- " Clive had applied a generous amount of some specialized product to her hair that transformed her bushy mop into a fall of sleek, gleaming curls that fell over her shoulders and framed her face. Her mother had gifted her with several more tubes of the pomade to take home with her, so the frizzies appeared to be banished for the immediate future.

Truthfully, Hermione had never cared much about her appearance one way or another, and had never understood the untold hours some girls had spent in the Gryffindor dormitory grooming themselves before they felt ready to appear in public. Ron had fallen in love with her bushy hair and all, so it wasn't as if she had to play up her looks in order to catch a man. Oh, once she started work at the Ministry she had developed a fast routine of mascara and lip tint in an attempt to look a little older and more polished, but that was about it. But after receiving more than a few admiring looks during her trip from the salon back to her mother's car, Hermione had begun to wonder if she had overlooked an important part of her development. Surely she shouldn't care if she attracted the attention of some Muggle men on the street, but somehow it felt good to realize that complete strangers apparently thought she was pretty. It was a novel experience, one that erased some of the sting from phrases such as "a plain but ambitious girl," words she had shrugged off at the time but which had continued to rankle somewhere deep inside.

"Well, I think it looks wonderful," Ginny said. "Really changes you. I might have passed you on the street and not even recognized you!"

"I would not say eet ees so drastic," cut in Fleur, who gave Hermione an appraising look. Although the events of the War and motherhood had softened her somewhat, Hermione could tell Fleur still did not particularly like another woman being the center of attention. Ginny scowled, and Fleur hastened to add, "But eet ees certainly an improvement."

Hermione wanted to laugh at the backhanded compliment, but instead she managed to smile and murmur a thanks, then gratefully accepted the goblet of elf-made wine Bill handed over to her with a wink. After asking Molly if she needed any help -- a question which always met with demurral, but which convention demanded -- Hermione took the empty spot at the table between Ginny and Charlie.

The conversation drifted this way and that, with Harry and Percy discussing the latest developments at the Ministry, and Ginny and Fleur occupied with an in-depth analysis of which cribs and layettes were superior. Hermione found herself listening to both with only half an ear, comforted more by the sounds of their voices and the reassuring familiarity of her surroundings. Ron might be gone, but at least the Weasleys still considered her to be very much a part of the family. At the same time, she felt herself detached from the group, a friendly observer at best.

Perhaps it was merely because of the secret she carried with her. She knew Severus Snape was still alive, but she hadn't breathed a word of her discovery to Harry. Not that she'd really had the opportunity -- her parents had kept her busy after she arrived at their home on Monday afternoon after she got off work, and she knew better than to expect she would have a chance to speak to him in private at the Burrow.

_Should_ she even tell him? Hermione had wrestled with that question in some depth, unsure as to what exactly Harry's reaction would even be. To be sure, he hadn't seemed exactly thrilled with her investigation into the mystery in the first place. Then again, didn't he deserve to know? Just because he had kept his own secrets didn't mean she should respond in kind.

Back and forth she went over her dilemma even now, as the conversation ebbed and flowed around her, until at last the feast was spread out on the table before them. All talk died as everyone attended to the important business of showing their appreciation for Molly's culinary talents. Once or twice Hermione looked up from her plate to see Harry staring at her with a speculative gleam in his eyes, but he was seated far enough away from her that she didn't much fear him asking any awkward questions. Both Charlie, who sat to her right, and Percy, who sat on her other side, seemed to respect her need for silence and allowed her to eat in peace.

After dinner, once the plates had been cleared away, the group wandered into the living room for the all-important opening of presents. Tiny stars Charmed to provide an ever-moving constellation of light circled the somewhat lopsided fir tree in the corner, and a fire burned warm in the hearth. Harry began to edge toward Hermione, but was intercepted by Arthur, who decreed that he should play Father Christmas for the evening and hand out the presents. An air of determined cheer pervaded the room; everyone there must have felt Ron's loss as an old, unhealed wound, but it was quite obvious that none of them would publicly acknowledge such a thing. Perhaps the forced merriment was for little Victoire's sake, who had barely known her uncle and who was now toddling about the room and trying to rip open every brightly wrapped package she saw, whether or not it belonged to her.

Hermione didn't want to acknowledge the relief that flooded through her as she watched Arthur neatly sidetrack Harry. After all, she would have to tell Harry the truth about Professor Snape at some point. But she didn't want it to be here, where the Weasleys would no doubt pounce on the information like a starving crup on a bone. They did have a tendency to dissect ever piece of noteworthy news from the wizarding world, and somehow she found she didn't much care for the thought of Severus Snape being the focus of such a discussion.

"Woolgathering?" Harry asked, and Hermione looked up to see him holding out a lumpy package.

"I expect I was," she admitted, but said nothing else as she accepted the gift. By the size and feel it was most likely another one of Molly's hand-knit jumpers. Really, how many of the things did Molly think she could reasonably wear? At least this one, as Hermione discovered when she opened the package, was a rather tasteful dark green garment with a pretty pattern of leaves around the neck and sleeves. "Thank you, Molly," she called out. "It's really lovely."

The sincerity in Hermione's voice must have been evident, for Molly smiled and nodded, looking pleased. Probably she'd had to do with quite a bit of grumbling over the years from her brood in regard to her knitting projects, but at least in this case the recipient showed genuine gratitude.

Hermione had rather recklessly spent her money on somewhat frivolous gifts -- a transistor radio for Arthur, who would no doubt take it apart the very next day; a set of bath salts and lotions that would magically change scent depending on the user's mood for Molly; fur-lined slippers for Ginny, who always complained of cold feet. It should have comforted Hermione to watch as everyone opened their presents and exclaimed over them, but she felt a sudden, inexplicable wave of sadness wash over her…not, she realized, because Ron wasn't there, but because she had had a sudden vision of Severus Snape all alone in that isolated dale, spending Christmas Eve with no one but himself for company.

Why that thought should cause her so much sorrow, Hermione couldn't quite guess. After all, Snape had no one to blame his exile on but himself. Still, it hurt her to think of him in his solitude at this season. To the best of her knowledge, he had always stayed on at Hogwarts during the Christmas holidays, probably because he had nowhere else to go. At least there he had had the spurious comfort of his fellow staff members if nothing more.

She had thought herself alone all these months, but although Ron's loss echoed through her life like the clanging of a prison gate that locked away all her future hopes, as she gazed on the determined, cheerful faces of the people around her, Hermione understood she hadn't been alone at all. Not like Severus Snape, who had no one -- no family, no friends, no loved ones -- to whom he could turn when the solitude became too great, and the echoing emptiness such a weight that sometimes the mere act of drawing breath became a burden.

As if in answer to her thoughts, Hermione felt the familiar tightness in her chest and throat, and the bright scene before her blurred into tears. Blindly she set aside the jumper and pushed herself out of the chair, ignoring Harry and Ginny's worried queries. She blundered out of the living room and into the hallway, where she pressed her forehead against the lintel of the front door and fought the sobs that wanted to tear their way out of her.

"Hermione?" Harry's voice, thick with concern.

She did not lift her head. "I'm all right."

"Liar."

At that remark she managed a shaky laugh. "Fine, then. I'll be all right in a minute." She turned and crossed her arms in front of her, forcing herself to meet Harry's troubled gaze.

He shifted his weight, as if uneasy at her unexpected display of emotion. "I know it's tough," he said. "First Christmas without him…we're all just doing our best to hang on."

Hermione nodded, but for some reason Harry's comment only made her want to break into renewed sobs. Better, though, that he should think her grief for Ron was the reason why she wept.

After all, how on earth could she ever explain to Harry Potter that she wept for Severus Snape, for his utter isolation and the lost, empty days of his bitter life?

* * *

Christmas Day came and went, a bright blur of cheerful, ordinary traditions. Hermione almost welcomed the sheer Muggle-ness of her family's celebration; it was easier to be with her parents and her cousins and uncles and aunts, since they of course knew nothing of Severus Snape or her mad impulse to seek him out. But after Christmas came Boxing Day, and as much as Hermione looked forward to seeing Neville and Luna and even Ernie, she had come to dread the idea of being alone with Harry. The prospect of sharing confidences didn't seem quite as appealing as it had only a few days earlier. 

_I didn't think it would be so hard_, she thought, after Apparating on the front doorstep of number 12, Grimmauld Place. _And I must be losing my mind, to have broken down like that on Christmas Eve. If Snape likes his solitude, why should it upset me so much?_

To that she had no real answer, so she sucked in her breath and lifted the knocker on the front door. At once it swung inward, and Kreacher poked out his long nose. Luckily his outlook and his behavior had suffered a sea change since the time he had greeted Hermione with the hated epithet of "Mudblood." Now he bowed and said, in his rusty voice, "Happy Christmas, Mrs. Weasley."

The name made her want to look over her shoulder for Molly, but Hermione had long since given up this battle, as hyphenates were apparently beyond the house-elf's understanding. Instead she replied, "Thank you, Kreacher," and entered the ground-floor hallway.

Kreacher wasn't the only thing about the house that had experienced a change for the better. Certainly the late, unlamented Mrs. Black wouldn't have recognized the place. Gone were the peeling wallpaper and musty carpet, along with the rows of forbidding portraits that had once populated the downstairs corridor. Harry hadn't quite had the nerve to dispose of them altogether, but they now resided in the basement, from whence Mrs. Black's outraged shriek would emerge at random intervals. The first few times that had happened Hermione had jumped about a foot, but now she had grown used to it, the way someone who lived near a railway might become accustomed to the intermittent shrilling of a steam whistle.

Now the house looked trim and smart, quite like something out of one of Hermione's mother's interior design magazines. Polished wood gleamed on the floor, and warm tan paint served as the perfect backdrop for the subtly moving landscapes Ginny had hung on the walls to replace the grim Black portraits.

Hermione heard voices drifting up from the staircase that led down to the basement kitchen and moved in that direction. Kreacher followed her for a few paces, then returned to his post by the door.

Sure enough, Harry and Ginny sat at the long kitchen table, with Ernie hovering in the background. Hermione didn't see Neville or Luna, but as Luna was not known for her punctuality and Neville often didn't seem to have room in his head for commonplaces such as a calendar, Hermione did not find their tardiness all that unusual.

"Something for the table," she said, offering a bottle of elf-made wine she had picked up in Diagon Alley a few days earlier. "And my mother sent this for you, Ginny -- she says it's very good." Hermione set a bottle of imported sparkling peach juice down on the table next to the wine; since her expecting sister-in-law of course couldn't drink the elf-made liquor, Hermione had been glad of her mother's suggestion to bring Ginny some of the fizzy juice.

"It looks lovely," said Ginny, who reached over to pick up the bottle and take a closer look at the label. "Tell your mum thanks so much." She put the bottle back down and then rubbed a hand across her distended belly. "I'm beginning to feel as if I'm carrying around a giant, but I suppose I should just be glad that I'm at my biggest now and not over the summer."

"Not much longer, though, right?" Hermione asked, with what she hoped was a knowing glance at Ginny's stomach. It had begun to seem as if her sister-in-law had been pregnant forever.

"About a month, if all goes well. Mum's been feeding me horror stories about how Bill was three weeks late, though. I guess it's not that uncommon with the first child."

"Well, we'll just have to hope for the best," Hermione replied, feeling a little uncomfortable. Ginny seemed so matter-of-fact about the whole thing, and of course the healers at St. Mungo's were some of the best in the world, but Hermione wasn't sure she would be so calm if their situations were reversed.

"Some wine, Hermione?" Harry asked.

His questioned startled her a little, but she said at once, "No, not yet. With dinner, perhaps." The last thing she needed was to start drinking the heady wine on an empty stomach.

He smiled. "Some pumpkin juice, then?"

She agreed to that at once, and just after Harry had poured it for her a clatter of feet on the stairs announced the arrival of Neville and Luna. Although Hermione thought she would have been used to it by now, somehow Neville's appearance continued to shock her. It didn't seem quite right that the chubby, awkward boy he had been had grown up to be quite a good-looking young man. And Luna, despite her mismatched robes and faraway mien, somehow managed to project a wistful, fey quality that went well with her clouds of pale hair and dreamy blue eyes. It seemed that the hand Neville offered her as they reached the bottom of the step had a touch more than friendliness to it.

_Or I could just be imagining things_, Hermione told herself. _I hope I'm not succumbing to that dismal tendency of some females to mentally match everyone up everyone around them_. Still, she was fairly certain she hadn't mistaken the brief, admiring glance Neville gave Luna before she came to sit down at the table on Ginny's other side.

Harry offered their new guests drinks, and after everyone had settled themselves -- including Ernie, who finally ceased his hovering and sat himself next to Hermione -- Ginny flashed the company a grin and inquired, "Have any of you seen the _Daily Prophet_ today?"

Hermione shook her head; although she subscribed to the paper, she had of course spent the last few days at her parents' house, where the newspaper of choice was the _Times_.

"The _Prophet_ doesn't interest me," said Luna dreamily. She stared off in the direction of the stove, where Kreacher had reappeared and was doing something complicated with a standing rib roast.

Hermione had to quash the impulse to offer Kreacher some help; the house-elf would not stoop to accept any assistance. Besides, she knew she had no real idea of what one even did with a rib roast. Better to let it alone.

Neville looked mystified, and Ernie shrugged and remarked, "Took a quick glance at the paper, but I confess I didn't see anything of particular note."

"Well, it was buried toward the back," Ginny said, then added, "_Accio Prophet!_" The paper came sailing down the stairs and nearly smacked Harry in the head, but he ducked just in time. Still grinning, Ginny snatched the paper out of midair and flipped to almost the last page, then smoothed it out on the table in front of her. "Just a small announcement: 'Married lately at Malfoy Manor, Miss Pansy Parkinson to Master Draco Malfoy.' I guess she finally snagged him."

"And I can only imagine what their children will look like," Harry remarked. "Pairing a ferret with a pug!"

"Harry!" Hermione said, in reproving tones. True, Draco did have quite a pointed nose -- but then again, so had Ron. And Pansy had improved greatly over the past few years. Hermione had actually caught a glimpse of the erstwhile Miss Parkinson the preceding Saturday in Diagon Alley. Pansy had been coming out of Madam Malkins' shop, accompanied by a taut-faced older woman whom Hermione had guessed must be her mother. Probably getting a last fitting on her wedding robes, Hermione realized. "I'm surprised it took them so long."

"Well, the Malfoys haven't been exactly the favored children of the wizarding world since the end of the War," Ginny replied. "They've been lying pretty low, but there's still quite a bit of bad feeling. And although Pansy was a Slytherin, there's never been any evidence to show that her parents were supporters of Voldemort. I doubt they were exactly thrilled with Pansy continuing to stick by Draco despite everything."

Which would explain the grim look on the elder Parkinson woman's face, Hermione supposed. They hadn't worn the appearance of a mother and daughter shopping for wedding clothes, that was for sure. Ignoring a flare of unexpected sympathy for Pansy, Hermione just said lightly, "No doubt you'd say they deserve one another, Harry!"

He refused to take the bait, and instead replied, "Let's just wish them all the happiness they deserve." With that he raised his glass, and everyone around the table followed suit. "To Draco and Pansy -- here's wishing them a long life in which they can plague one another to the end of their days!"

Ginny laughed and said, "Hear, hear!"

Ernie chuckled as well, and drank some of his elf-made wine. Neville looked somewhat puzzled, but gamely toasted the lucky couple, while Luna just smiled and shook her head.

Hermione wasn't sure the mockery was warranted, but she held her tongue and drank a little of her pumpkin juice. Oh, Draco had proved to be a double-crossing sneak, and a coward as well, but one couldn't hold a grudge forever. Surely he must have had some redeeming qualities, or Pansy would have given him up years ago. Even if it were misplaced, Hermione found she couldn't deride that sort of devotion.

After clearing his throat, Neville said, "Well, I've just gotten a bit of good news myself."

Perhaps he hadn't meant to steer the conversation away from Draco and Pansy, but Hermione mentally thanked Neville for giving her a chance to change the subject. "Really?" she asked. "What is it?"

"Professor Sprout has decided she wants to step down after this year, and she's putting my name forward as her replacement." Neville uttered these words with a diffident air, but the flush that spread across his cheeks gave the lie to his nonchalant manner.

Immediately the table erupted with congratulations and well wishes, and Neville blushed even more. "Well, nothing's final," he went on. "But usually the outgoing professor's recommendation is given a lot of weight. I should know for sure by the end of May."

"That's wonderful news," Hermione said firmly. "Your grandmother must be so proud."

"Oh, she is. After all, after the way things started out for me at Hogwarts, I'm pretty sure she never thought I'd end up teaching there!"

That self-deprecating comment made everyone laugh, and Hermione joined in as well, although Neville's remark somehow brought home to her how much everything had changed over the past few years, how one could never be sure what twists Fate might decide to throw in one's path. Certainly she could never have imagined being widowed at twenty-three. She became acutely aware that it was Ernie Macmillan and not Ron who sat next to her and laughed and joked with the rest of the company.

_You will not cry_, she told herself. _Just paste on a smile and get through the evening somehow…and it _is_ good to see everyone, even if the person you wanted most to be here is gone._

The moment of melancholy passed, and Kreacher announced dinner would be served soon. That appeared to be the signal for them to leave the cozy if cramped quarters of the basement kitchen and troop dutifully up the stairs to the dining room, which was located on the first floor. And truly the rest of the evening did pass cheerfully enough, with all the inevitable catching up that was the hallmark of such gatherings.

Much later, however, after Ernie had left, with Neville and Luna following within a few moments, Harry fixed Hermione with a stare that seemed impossible to avoid and asked, "Would you mind giving me a hand with these glasses? I've sent Kreacher to bed -- he worked himself too hard today."

Well, she had to give Harry credit for knowing exactly how to corner her. She couldn't demur without making it sound as if she didn't care whether Kreacher was tired or not, and of course Ginny couldn't be expected to carry the glasses down to the kitchen. Besides, she looked worn out, propped up in an armchair with her hands draped limply across the bulk of her belly and her eyes half-closed.

"Of course," Hermione said. She knew she was trapped.

In silence they gathered up the empty glasses and went downstairs to the kitchen. Once he had set his burden down on the counter next to the sink, Harry crossed his arms and said, "Well?"

"Well what?"

He frowned. "Don't play stupid, Hermione…it's one of the few things you're not good at."

Hermione felt a scowl of her own crease her forehead. "I fail to see why I should have to tell you anything, considering you've been less than forthcoming with me."

"Oh, so we're back to that now?"

"Yes."

His mouth tightened. "I don't see how what I know can make any difference."

"Why don't you let me be the judge of that?"

He'd learned to control his temper better over the years, but Hermione could tell he was angry with her. It showed in the tense muscles of his throat and the pinched look around his eyes. He said, "Did you know about the portrait?"

Puzzled by this non sequitur, Hermione replied, "What portrait?"

"Snape's portrait. The one in the Headmaster's office."

"What about it?"

"It's empty."

Anger of her own flared, and Hermione snapped, "What on earth are you talking about?"

"They didn't want to give him one at first, but Professor McGonagall and I argued for it." Harry's lips quirked. "Odd as that may sound. So they hung the frame -- and nothing. No Snape."

"Really?" Hermione responded, but she thought her voice sounded a little shaky.

"Really. Some people thought it was because he hadn't been Headmaster when he died -- after all, he'd been sacked -- but I thought it was still strange. So tell me, Hermione -- is the reason Snape never showed up in that portrait because he's not really dead?"

The question seemed to hang in the air for a long moment. Then she said, "Yes."

A strange expression passed across Harry's face, one that came and went so quickly Hermione couldn't even identify what it was.

"Yes, he's alive," she went on. "So I was right after all."

For a few seconds Harry said nothing. At length he asked, "How is he?"

"Alone," she said shortly.

Harry glanced away from her but did not reply.

"So I've told you the truth," Hermione said. "Are you going to return the favor?"

Another one of those silences.

Again she felt a rush of anger, and with it the beginnings of regret. Why on earth had she told him the truth, when it was obvious he had no intention of showing her the same courtesy? What could possibly be so important he would continue to hide it from her?

Coldly she said, "Goodnight, Harry," and turned away from him.

"Hermione -- "

Ignoring the pleading tone in his voice, she continued to walk toward the stairs, only to feel his hand reach out to grab her by the arm. It was slightly less rude than having him block her with an Impediment jinx, but all the same she whirled around and wrenched herself from his grasp.

"Manhandling me won't help, you know," she said.

"Look, Hermione, I'm sorry -- "

He did sound sorry, but at the moment she didn't much care. "After all we've been through together, you're still keeping secrets from me. How do you think that makes me feel?" As she uttered those last words, Hermione realized she was dangerously close to tears again. Damn it, she might as well Transfigure herself into a wet blanket and be done with it.

For what seemed like an eternity Harry merely stood there, gazing down into her face. The dull glow from the fireplace reflected in his glasses, and she could read nothing from his expression. Finally he said, "He loved her."

Again she felt as if Harry's remark had somehow come in at right angles to reality. "What?"

"Professor Snape. He loved my mother. And that's why he worked all those years for Dumbledore -- so he could somehow find a way to atone for telling Voldemort the prophecy, for giving Voldemort a reason to want me dead."

The enormity of what Harry had just told her didn't quite sink in at first. Hermione said the first thing that popped into her mind. "I didn't realize they knew one another."

Harry smiled thinly, as if he understood all too well her shocked incomprehension. "They grew up together, were in the same class at Hogwarts. I think they were even friends for a while. But he started messing with the Dark Arts, and she dropped him. Guess you know now why he hated my father so much."

It explained so many things, so many undercurrents Hermione hadn't even been aware existed until now. It was like looking through her father's binoculars at a fuzzy landscape and having him come up and adjust the setting so that everything slipped into sharp focus.

It explained as well the edged retort of "don't I?" when she had accused Snape of not knowing what it was like to lose someone. He had lost Lily, and doubly so. The empty months since Ron had died had taught Hermione a bitter lesson about loss. It wasn't just the idea of that person being gone forever which hurt so much, but the realization you had lost as well all the possibilities that had existed while he was still alive. To deal with such a burden was bad enough; to feel yourself responsible for that person's death must have been untenable. No wonder Snape had risked his life over and over again to bring about Voldemort's defeat. It would not bring Lily back, but at least it would have earned him some measure of absolution.

"Harry, I'm so sorry," Hermione said at last. "I had no idea -- "

The bitter smile that pulled at Harry's lips was almost worthy of Severus Snape. "My own fault, I suppose. If I'd just told you the truth in the beginning, maybe you wouldn't have been so eager to go chasing after Professor Snape."

Possibly, although Hermione knew deep down that very likely her respect for Harry's situation might not have overcome her desire to solve the mystery. "Perhaps," she allowed.

"So what now? You've found him -- what are you going to do next?"

Hermione gave Harry a weak smile. "I don't know. He all but threw me bodily off the property -- I doubt he'd be happy to see me again!"

Harry made no effort to hide his relief. "Well, if he wants to be alone, I suppose we'd better just let him."

Not quite trusting herself to reply, she nodded. She knew that Harry would expect her to let the matter go, and if she had an ounce of common sense, she would do as he wished. But something in her ached at the thought of Severus Snape left to a gulag of his own making. The realization that he had once loved Lily Potter -- and had continued to love her, despite everything -- awoke a stirring within her own heart. It was not pity. Severus Snape would only meet pity with scorn. Rather, it was the birth of a new compassion for someone who had, in his way, suffered a loss as great as hers.

Since Harry obviously expected a reply, Hermione nodded. She hated what she was about to say, but for now it would be better to let him think she had dropped her pursuit of Severus Snape. After all, even she didn't quite know what she planned to do next.

"Yes," she lied, "it is best to let him be."


	6. Desperate Measures

Author's Note: Normally I don't do long author's notes, as I feel they tend to get in the way of the story. However, because of some of the responses I received after the last chapter I posted, I felt I should make a few clarifications. First off, this story is AU, obviously, since Snape is alive and Ron is dead. While I try to stick to canon as much as possible, since I've already taken the story in an AU direction, I'm not as worried about being completely canon-compliant as I might be under different circumstances. For a variety of reasons, this story required that Harry reveal Snape's feelings for Lily to Hermione only now, at this point in their lives. To be honest, I didn't like that bit in DH (actually, there was a lot in DH that I didn't like very much). It didn't ring true to me that Harry would reveal such a delicate personal fact in front of all those people. He had plenty of other backing evidence to support his belief in the "power of love"; I don't think letting everyone know that Snape -- a man Harry had spent many years hating -- had in fact loved his mother obsessively and with tragic results was something he would do. Just because Harry finally learned Snape had been on the "good" side all those years doesn't mean all his resentment would be wiped out just like that. Personally, I think the situation would have been a good deal more complicated -- one of the reasons I wanted to write this story in the first place was that I wanted to explore some of the psychological issues that might arise after such long-buried loves and hates came to light.

You don't have to agree with me, of course, and I don't expect you to. But I did want to make a little more clear why I've written things the way I have. I'm not saying I don't get a fact wrong from time to time, but I do make an effort to research my material as much as possible before I start writing.

Well, that's it. We now return you to your regularly scheduled broadcast…

* * *

Six: Desperate Measures

"You have gone mad, you know," Hermione told her reflection. "Completely and utterly mad. Barking, even."

The Hermione inside the mirror didn't look particularly mad -- in fact, she appeared far less crazed than the sloppy version who had turned up on Professor Snape's doorstep more than a week ago. At least this Hermione had attended to her hair and wore a becoming if modest robe of a dark wine color under her gray wool traveling cloak. On closer inspection, however, one could probably detect a frightening level of determination in her dark eyes…a determination at the moment overlaid by desperation.

Night had fallen, the last night of the year. Hermione had brushed off an invitation from Harry to join him and Ginny at Grimmauld Place, telling him she planned to spend a quiet evening with her parents. She had handed her parents the same lie, except that she told them she meant to stay over at Harry's in London. No one had questioned her, because in both cases the interested parties thought her story completely plausible. And after all, she could hardly have told them the truth, which was that she intended to visit Professor Snape once again at his refuge in Yorkshire.

After his revelations to her in the kitchen at Grimmauld Place, Harry had shown every intention of never mentioning the subject again. No doubt he had thought he could keep the truth of Severus Snape's feelings for Lily Potter safely hidden, but since both parties involved were not in fact dead, the Professor's continuing existence put a definite kink in Harry's plans. Hermione had told him several times she would never repeat the story, but he hadn't seemed reassured. Frankly, she couldn't quite fathom why he found the situation so awkward. Was it really so shameful that his mother had been the sort of woman who could inspire affection in even someone as cold and distant as Severus Snape? If anything, Hermione would have thought Professor Snape had the more difficult role -- his behavior to Harry had of course been unfair in the extreme, but she imagined it couldn't have been easy for Snape to see every day the physical evidence that Lily had chosen James Potter over him.

But she knew better than to utter a word of these disloyal thoughts to Harry -- no, she had just told him she would respect his confidence and keep his secret. If Professor Snape wished to live out his days in exile, then so be it. After their little _tête à tête_ in the kitchen was finished, she and Harry had gone back up to where Ginny dozed in the drawing room. Hermione made her good-byes, and that had been the end of it.

Only Hermione knew that wasn't really the end of it at all. She'd returned to her parents' home, where she planned to stay until her return to work the following Monday, but sleep had been the last thing on her mind. Her bedroom, which had remained materially unchanged from the time she'd left to live with Ron in Rosedell, felt strange and unfamiliar. Lying awake in the darkness, Hermione turned the matter over and over in her mind.

Professor Snape had made it quite clear he wanted nothing to do with her, but she couldn't help but think that was simply because he didn't realize the wizarding world had moved on. Voldemort's Death Eaters had been rounded up and sent back to Azkaban, with the notable exception of the Malfoys, who had escaped by the skin of their noses after Harry, of all people, took up their cause. He would be dead if it weren't for Narcissa Malfoy, he'd declared, and that was enough to save the Malfoy clan. Harry Potter's word was as good as gold in the wizarding community. If he could somehow salvage the Malfoys, why couldn't he do the same for Severus Snape? After all, Professor Snape really had been working on the side of good all those years -- it was highly probable Voldemort would never have been defeated if it weren't for Snape's assistance. Besides, Harry had revealed as well that it was Snape's doe Patronus which had led them to the Sword of Gryffindor, an artifact critical in the destruction of Voldemort's final Horcrux.

Surely once people were presented with all this evidence, they would realize what a hero Severus Snape had been. He should have been given a post of honor, not forced to hide himself away in a forsaken corner of the country. She had to try to reason with him again. Yes, their first meeting had not gone well -- to put it mildly -- but that didn't mean she should just give up. Hadn't he lived in enough isolation his entire adult life, mourning in secret because he didn't dare reveal his true feelings for the woman he had loved?

Lying there in the narrow bed of her childhood, Hermione once again felt that strange ache in her breast, an unexpected echo of sympathy for Professor Snape. What would it have felt like, she wondered, to have lost Ron but never have been able to show anyone how she felt, never allow herself to grieve in public? Such a burden could very well drive someone mad. But somehow Snape had borne it, and even found the strength to give himself over to Dumbledore's service, to do what he could to right a terrible wrong. She didn't know whether she would have been able to the same thing in similar circumstances.

In that moment, her determination to see Snape again hardened into a terrible resolve. She knew she didn't dare speak of her decision to anyone, and perhaps the only result would be to get pitched out into the snow once more, but she had to try. If she didn't, she knew she would have failed herself. After all, she could face the inevitable sneers and cutting remarks. If that was how Professor Snape wished to shield himself in order to keep anyone else from ever getting close to him again, so be it. At least now she knew the reason for his behavior.

Still, her resolve had begun to feel shakier and shakier as Hermione had prepared herself to return to Yorkshire. Why she had chosen New Year's Eve she couldn't be quite sure, except that it was a night when almost everyone else would be occupied with their own business. Since she had already made excuses for herself with both Harry and her parents, she knew no one would be likely to check in on her. Also, there was something symbolic about facing Snape just as the new year ushered itself in. Wasn't it time he faced a new beginning as well?

Rationalizations that had seemed plausible in the light of day began to fade with the coming of dark, however. Hermione dressed with care, then made sure her hair still looked as neat as it could. It would never match Ginny's sleek, shining locks, but the new haircut and glossing product Clive had provided certainly worked an almost miraculous change in her own unruly mane, so Hermione supposed she would have to be satisfied with that. At least now she looked halfway decent, like a young woman and not a sixth year dressed for a ramble about the Hogwarts grounds.

The clock on the mantel chimed eight times. She'd made sure she'd eaten, and Crookshanks provided for as well. The house was neat and clean. Really, there was nothing else to delay her departure.

But still she hesitated in front of the mirror, fussing with the clasp of her cloak, making sure her hair fell just so. _Do you really think he cares what you look like?_ she asked herself sternly, but Hermione knew that the uncharacteristic primping had very little to do with Severus Snape's reaction to her appearance and much more to do with delaying her departure by any means necessary.

At length, though, she couldn't make excuses to herself any longer. Taking a breath, she clasped the bottle of elf-made wine she'd procured in Diagon Alley during her lunch break earlier in the week and tucked it within the folds of her cloak. Perhaps he would accept the peace offering, perhaps not. She'd had half a mind to take a bottle of champagne, considering the holiday, but it seemed such a Muggle drink, and besides, she'd never cared much for it.

_And if you're lucky he won't crack the bottle right over your head and send you on your merry way_, she thought. That reaction seemed a little crude for Snape, but it was hard to know how he would react to her reappearing on his doorstep after he'd made it quite clear he'd welcome her return about as much as he'd appreciate an infestation of doxies. More likely he'd just look down his long nose at her and slam the door in her face. She'd just have to make sure she got a foot stuck in the door first so it wouldn't shut all the way.

For some reason that thought made her smile a little to herself. Figuring it was best to go now while her humor was temporarily improved, she closed her eyes, imagining Snape's forlorn cottage and the narrow valley that did so well to hide it. Then she Disapparated, and the warmth of her living room transformed abruptly into the biting cold of a December night.

No snow fell this time, although the ground leading up to Snape's front door was covered in the stuff, which glittered palely under the light of a gibbous moon. If anything, however, the clear air felt even colder than before. Hermione's breath drifted out in vague clouds around her head, and she pulled the cloak more tightly around herself.

Even as she lifted a hand to knock on the door it opened, and Severus Snape stared out at her, his saturnine features impassive. An awkward second passed, and then another. At last Hermione fished out the bottle of wine and said lamely, "Happy New Year!"

"I see nothing happy about it," he replied. "What do you want?"

"To -- to talk," she said, unable to keep her teeth from chattering a bit. Was he really going to deny her entry, keep her standing out here in the cold?

It seemed as if he was. He continued to block the doorway; Hermione could see only a narrow outline of warm yellow light behind him.

"I felt as if I didn't ex -- explain myself very well last time," she went on. Her fingers began to feel as if they were slowly freezing to the surface of the bottle. Why on earth hadn't she at least put on a pair of gloves?

_Because you thought he'd let you right in_, she thought. _No need for gloves when Professor Snape is going to be chummy, right?_

His gaze slowly drifted from her face to her exposed hand. Already the tips of her fingers had begun to look very pale against the dark bottle.

"Very well," he said at last, and stepped aside, allowing her to squeeze past him and into the blessed warmth of his living room.

Not daring to look over at him, Hermione stepped to the table that fronted the couch and with a little gasp released the bottle, then flexed her numb fingers.

Snape said nothing, but moved to the table himself, forcing her to sit down on the couch so as not to get pushed aside. Without even a sideways glance to see if she was all right, he reached down and picked up the bottle, then tilted it toward the firelight, apparently so he could read the label.

Well, of all the cheek --

"Does it meet your approval?" she asked tartly.

"It will do." At last he turned to stare down at her. His face remained expressionless, but Hermione could read the tension radiating outward from every stiff line of his body. Then he said, "I suppose you want me to get some glasses."

She said the first thing that came to mind. "That would be lovely." _Good Lord_, she thought with a mental wince, _I sound like one of the women from my mother's book club…._

Luckily Professor Snape did not seem inclined to comment. Instead he just set the bottle back down on the table and disappeared in the direction of the kitchen, while Hermione undid the clasp that held her cloak tight against her throat and removed the heavy outer garment. Not sure what to do with it, she ended up wadding the heavy folds of fabric into a bulky pile and shoving it to the far end of the couch. At least now she felt as if she could take a breath without strangling.

He returned with two goblets of heavy greenish glass and placed them next to the elf-made wine. Following an elegant flick of his finger, the cork pulled itself out of the bottle and settled itself on the tabletop. Still without comment, Snape poured a modest measure of wine into each glass before handing one to her.

Hermione took the goblet but did not drink. She wrapped her hands around the heavy glass and waited. Surely it couldn't be that easy --

"A point of curiosity, Miss Granger," said Snape.

For a second she wondered whether she should correct him as to the form of address he had used, then decided against it. Of course he remembered her married name. The fact that he had chosen to ignore it meant he wanted to put them back on a footing of student and teacher.

"Yes, Professor?" she asked, giving him a wide-eyed look. Two could play at that game.

To her satisfaction, his mouth tightened. Then he said, "I believe I made it quite clear during your earlier…visit…that I would not appreciate a return trip. Since I know for a fact that you are lacking in neither wit nor the power of recollection, I find myself compelled to wonder why you would ignore my wishes and come here a second time."

Perhaps now would be a good time to take a sip of the wine. Hermione raised the goblet to her lips and allowed herself a minuscule amount before replying, "I expect you won't believe me if I tell you the spirit of the season moved me."

His lip curled. "Don't be disingenuous."

"I didn't feel as if I got the chance to explain myself fully." _That's an understatement_, she thought, feeling her own mouth twitch.

It was possible Snape had practiced a little surreptitious Legilimency, or perhaps he just found her expressions easy to read. Whatever the case, he replied, "I would suppose you found the conversation somewhat truncated. For myself, I thought it far too long as it was."

Refusing to be nettled, Hermione assumed an aspect of extreme placidity calculated to be particularly irritating. "I'm afraid I don't know what you're driving at."

His black eyes seemed to bore into her for a second, and then she thought she detected the barest lift of the shoulders beneath the black jacket he wore. She realized suddenly that the jacket, as well as the faded black jumper he wore beneath it, appeared to be of Muggle make. For some reason his change in wardrobe startled her almost as much as seeing Molly Weasley in a miniskirt might have.

_Well, what did you expect?_ the practical side of her mind inquired. _He had only the one set of clothes when he left Hogwarts, and he couldn't wear that every day -- it would stand up on its own by now if he did. And it's not as if he can just nip into Madam Malkins' for some replacement robes, now, can he?_

Silently, Snape moved past Hermione to sit in the same wing chair he had occupied during her previous visit. With something of a resigned air he drank from his own goblet of elf-made wine. "It doesn't suit you, you know," he said at length.

Her hand seemed to move of its own volition to the curls that fell over her shoulder. Had he noticed the change in her appearance after all? "What doesn't?"

"This show of ignorance. You are many things, Miss Granger -- some of them quite annoying -- but ignorant is not one of them."

Well, Snape had her there. She abandoned the wide-eyed look and leaned forward slightly, frowning as she clenched the goblet between both her hands. "Why do you find it so difficult to believe that I might simply be concerned for your well-being?"

He did not react so much as go even more still, his lean body taut, his back not even touching the fabric of the chair in which he sat. Then he gave her a scathing glare. "And to what do I owe this newfound concern? Has 'the spirit of the season,' as you put it, inclined you to take on a charity case? I assure you, Miss Granger, your concern is misplaced."

_Count to three_, Hermione told herself, and forced in a breath before replying. On the other hand, she did need to remember that she faced him now as an adult, and not as a student concerned with grades and willful deductions of House points. "Has anyone told you, Professor Snape, that you're an extremely unlikable bastard?"

As soon as the words left her lips Hermione wished she could take them back. Surely now he would fly into a towering rage and turn her into a newt or cast some other particularly unpleasant hex on her.

Instead, he did the last thing she could have expected. A corner of his thin mouth lifted, and he replied, "Yes…on numerous occasions."

For once, words failed her. She could only stare at Snape as he continued, "No doubt you've wished to tell me that for some time. It must be liberating to finally have the opportunity to do so."

Hermione found her voice. "Actually, I was usually the one defending you to Harry or Ron."

"Indeed? Do you expect me to thank you for that?"

"No. I've decided it's probably best to expect as little from you as possible."

Again he looked almost amused. "_Touché_, Miss Granger. I see some of that much-vaunted Gryffindor bravery in you, to come and beard the lion in his den."

Although the words should have been a compliment, from Snape's tone Hermione could tell his comment was meant to be anything but. In some exasperation she remarked, "Why must you make everything so difficult?"

"And why should you expect it to be easy? Surely the loss you've recently suffered should have taught you that lesson."

Those words, uttered with casual cruelty, made her retort, "The only thing my loss has taught me, Professor Snape, is that one cannot prepare for every eventuality. Things happen for which we have no explanation. But you should know that as well -- you've suffered your own losses, haven't you? And have you given up? Is that why you're hiding here, rather than facing the world?"

He focused her with a malevolent stare. "I am not hiding."

"Is that a fact? Then what would you call this?" Hermione flung out a contemptuous hand, as if to indicate their shabby surroundings. "Off on extended holiday, are you? I would think that after everything you've gone through, all you've done, you'd want something more than this."

"Miss Granger, you are in no position to understand what I need or want."

At another time the undercurrent of anger in his voice would have signaled Hermione to retreat, but the need to draw him out -- combined with frustration at an intransigence even greater than her own -- drove her on. "You might be surprised, Professor. I do know one thing, however -- no matter how long you hide here, no matter how many years pass, she will never come back. God knows I've spent the last six months coming to terms with that very same thing myself. I -- "

But she could go no further, for Snape broke in, black brows drawn down in a fierce scowl, "What did Potter tell you?"

"That you loved his mother," Hermione said flatly. "That you've loved her all these years, and did everything you could to atone for her death. That is admirable, but when is it enough?"

"Never," he said in forbidding tones. Something in his face told her that she should abandon the subject, but Hermione felt compelled to add,

"If your only intent was to run away and wait to die, why did you allow yourself to live in the first place?"

His features might have been etched from rock. The dark eyes blazed at her, but somehow Hermione got the impression he wasn't seeing her at all. Finally he said, in a murmur so low she had to strain to catch the words, "Because I was a coward."

Shock flooded through her, astonishment that he would make such a confession to her, of all people, and surprise that he would even think such a thing of himself. "I don't believe that," she replied. "Would a coward have spied for Professor Dumbledore all those years? Would a coward have followed that same man's orders, even if it meant killing one of the few people in the world who actually trusted him?"

Snape's bleak expression never wavered. "A coward who didn't want to die because he couldn't bear to experience an afterlife where he would be forced to see her spend eternity with another man."

A rush of compassion filled Hermione, for an instant making her own sorrow feel like a small thing compared to the torments Severus Snape must have suffered following Lily Potter's death. At least Hermione knew that Ron had loved her whole-heartedly, had only wanted to spend the rest of his life with her. _What would it have been like_, she thought, _to love Ron as I did, and see him choose someone else over me? Could I have borne it? Would I have even wanted to?_

On an impulse she leaned forward and laid a hand on Snape's arm. He started at her touch, like a half-broken horse shying at the touch of a bridle. The wool of his jacket felt rough under her fingers, but Hermione noted he did not try to pull away. "I am so sorry," she said gently.

At her words he did jerk his arm from beneath her hand. "I don't need your pity!" he snapped.

"Sympathy is not the same as pity," Hermione said, refusing to take offense. No doubt he was angry with himself for making such revelations -- and angry at her for being there to hear them. "Can't you even recognize simple compassion when you see it?"

Coldly he replied, "I fear compassion has not held a significant place in my life."

"Obviously." It was clear to Hermione that he hadn't felt compassion for the students he had browbeaten over the years. No wonder he had such a difficult time recognizing it in someone else. A part of her wondered again just what she was doing here, and why she had ever thought approaching Severus Snape was a good idea. Yes, he had loved and lost, but so had millions of other people, and they weren't all hiding away in remote cottages, hoping that the world would pass them by. She lifted her chin and went on, "I came here in good faith, you know. I didn't want to think that someone who had sacrificed so much was wasting the rest of his life away in exile for no good reason. You're one of the most powerful wizards in the world -- don't you think you have more to offer than hiding out here, mixing potions no one will ever use?"

For a long moment Snape only regarded her out of narrowed eyes. Then he said, in tones far milder than she would have expected, "They don't go to waste, you know. I sell them…under an assumed name, of course…to a witch in Cornwall who has a mail-order potions business."

Despite herself, Hermione grinned. "Well, that is a relief, I suppose!"

The look he gave her in return was still very sour, but infinitely better than the black glares of a few moments earlier. "I suppose some would find your naïveté refreshing, Miss Granger, but I think you will find that the wizarding world believes itself well rid of me. I'm sure the illustrious Harry Potter was none too pleased to learn of my miraculous return from the dead."

"No, he wasn't," she said frankly. "But that's his affair, isn't it? I mean, if we all went about worrying what other people think, none of us would get anything done, would we?"

"A pithy observation," Snape said, his tone dry enough to have served as the desiccant for the preserved bunches of herbs that hung in the dining room. "Perhaps you should send that in for the back page of the _Prophet_."

"Perhaps I will." Despite the fact that he still looked at her the same way he might have regarded a first year who had just botched the world's easiest potion, Hermione got the impression they had somehow turned a corner. At least she no longer thought Snape would cheerfully toss her out into the freezing cold night. Trying not to let the relief show in her voice, she turned to her neglected goblet of wine and stood, then moved over to the dining room so she could see his potions-making setup more clearly. "So this witch in Cornwall really has no idea she's buying her potions from none other than Severus Snape?"

"No, and I would prefer to keep it that way."

"Your secret is safe with me," Hermione replied, and realized she spoke of much more than his illicit potions dealings.

To her surprise, Snape rose as well, coming to stand next to her in the cramped dining area. Mixed with the scent of beeswax from the candles all around them were the more subtle scents of dried herbs and flowers. He gazed at his work space for a few seconds, then transferred his attention to her. Hermione forced herself not to blink under that unwavering stare, although it felt odd to stand there with him a scant foot away, to have him look into her face as if he could read the truth in her features.

"Yes," Severus Snape said at last. "I believe it is."


	7. New Beginnings

Well, I'd hoped to get this up a little sooner than this, but I've been working on some original stuff as well as this story. Thank you for all the reviews, everyone!

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Seven: New Beginnings

Hermione opened her eyes and watched as a narrow line of sunlight slipped in through the curtains and lay like a gleaming bar of gold across her dresser. For the first time since Ron's death she had a sensation of peace, of contentment. Of course the pain would return at some point, but for now it was enough simply to lie here, feeling warm and safe and sheltered. No doubt her current good humor was a direct result of last night's meeting with Severus Snape.

If someone had told her that spending a protracted amount of time in Professor Snape's company would lead to such feelings of good will, most likely she would have informed them they were barmy. But the knowledge that he had treated her civilly at the end and had not pitched her out headfirst into the snow after all gave her hope. Oh, of course he hadn't invited her to lengthen her stay -- once she had finished her glass of wine he had made it clear he expected her to leave -- but during the time they had spent together she felt the beginnings of rapport build between them. He seemed to trust that she would not speak of his location to anyone, and as she knew trust did not come to him with any ease, his confidence in her moved her greatly.

Neither had he instructed her to stay away, although Hermione guessed he had abandoned that battle as a lost cause. Not that she intended to intrude on him any time soon; she had to return to work the next day, and most of her hours would be consumed with the Ministry's doings. There was Ginny to think of, too. She wasn't due for some weeks, but babies had a tendency to come when they wanted to, and not to any particular schedule.

Humming to herself, Hermione pushed herself out of bed, earning a dirty look from Crookshanks, who had made a comfortable nest in the quilt next to her and didn't appear particularly happy that his mistress had decided to get up at such an ungodly hour. Not that it was too ungodly -- a quick glance at the clock told Hermione it was half-past seven -- but still it was rather early for New Year's Day. When she returned from Snape's the evening before it hadn't been quite ten o'clock, and she hadn't bothered to stay up to see the new year in. Rather ridiculous, when you got right down to it, to put such an arbitrary marker on something as fluid as time.

Despite such logical disparagements of convention, she did find something rather energizing about the thought that a whole new year had just begun. After a quick breakfast and a shower, she set about finally clearing away Ron's clutter from the spare bedroom. He had commandeered half of it as a workshop, where he had made random contributions to George's burgeoning joke empire when the mood struck him, but Hermione knew it was finally time to box up those items. She'd gone far past the time when she still halfway hoped Ron would come strolling back into the cottage, proclaim it had all been a wicked misunderstanding, and go on with his life. Of course she wouldn't throw these things away -- she'd send them off to George and see if he could use them. But at least she could tell herself she'd made a little progress.

The last box had been stowed under the work table when Hermione heard a knock at the front door. Puzzled, she got to her feet and dusted off her hands on her jeans. Who on earth would be calling on the morning of New Year's Day? At this hour -- now barely past nine o'clock -- most people would still be sleeping off their indulgences of the night before.

Frowning a little, she went to the door, glad that her good mood had extended to taking the extra few minutes it required to attend to her hair and put on a little lip color. When she opened the door, she found herself looking at a complete stranger. A tall fair-haired young man of about her own age stared down at her.

"Erm…can I help you?" she inquired.

The stranger's mouth quirked a bit. "Sauce for the goose, Miss Granger," he said in broad Yorkshire accents, but the intonation was familiar enough.

"Professor _Snape_?"

"A little louder, Miss Granger…I'm not quite sure they heard you over in Ottery St. Catchpole. May I come in?"

Flummoxed, she stepped aside and allowed him into the living room. Crookshanks, who had been occupying himself with an old sock of Ron's he had apparently found under the sofa, looked up at their visitor with flattened ears. Mortified, Hermione bent down and gathered up the sock, then balled it awkwardly into her left hand.

Snape took a few steps into the chamber and looked around, right eyebrow raised. "That is a hideous sofa," he pronounced.

_I swear I'll never buy chintz again_, Hermione thought. She asked, "Some tea, Professor?"

"By all means, if you feel it will help fill that awkward period during which you screw up the nerve to ask me why I'm here."

There being no way to reply to his comment, she instead moved past him and into the kitchen, thrusting Ron's discarded sock into one of her cardigan's pockets. Snape followed, taking a seat at the kitchen table as if he'd done so a hundred times in the past.

_Cool bugger, isn't he?_ she reflected. Still, something in her couldn't help but admire the absolute aplomb with which he sat there in his borrowed form, surveying the yellow-painted chamber with only slightly disdainful eyes.

After she had waved her wand to magically heat the water in the kettle to near boiling, Hermione filled a tea ball with some Darjeeling and set it in the teapot. Then she asked, "So who is he?"

"Who?"

"Whoever that is whose face you're wearing."

Snape shrugged. "A boy from the nearest village. Sweepings from the town barber can be useful."

So it would seem. Perhaps Snape's isolation hadn't been as complete as she had previously thought. After all, whoever would have expected the supercilious Potions master to stoop so low as to impersonate a Muggle?

Without comment she set a teacup in front of Snape and then poured out the tea. "Milk? Or sugar?"

"None."

_Of course he would drink it black_, Hermione thought in some amusement. She took it that way herself, so after she had secured a cup for herself she sat down and faced the unfamiliar young man. He wasn't bad-looking, she realized, tall and well-built with a fine head of tawny blond hair, but she found herself thinking she'd rather be looking into Snape's normal face, oversized nose and all.

_Sauce for the goose_, he had said. "So is this your way of getting back at me?" she inquired.

"Getting back?"

"For those unexpected visits you seemed to enjoy so much."

"Ah, that." He drank from his cup of tea and then set it down. "I find no need to waste my time in petty retaliation, Miss Granger."

"Hermione."

He paused after her interjection, and gave a grudging nod. "If you wish. Very well, _Hermione_, let us say that I considered your words and have a few questions for you. It seemed to me this was the easiest way for me to visit you. Surely no one should think anything out of the ordinary about someone of your own age coming to see you here."

Hermione thought Snape didn't know much of Molly Weasley's sleuthing abilities. If Molly got wind of the fact that a handsome young stranger had dropped by Rosedell on New Year's Day, Hermione feared she would never hear the end of it. However, she decided it would probably be better not to voice such concerns to the Professor. She was having a hard enough time reconciling his precise syntax with the Yorkshire accent. It was slightly incongruous, like watching a reimagining of _Pygmalion_ with a male lead from Yorkshire instead of a Cockney flower-seller.

"What questions?" she asked.

"You seem to labor under the misapprehension that I am being wasted in my chosen seclusion, that I have more to offer the wizarding world. I am curious -- if I decided to 'return from the dead,' as it were, what precisely did you think I would do?"

The question took her aback. Hermione stared at him, at the unfamiliar blue eyes and too-straight nose. Last night she had noticed for the first time how truly black Snape's eyes were, so dark one could see little differentiation between iris and pupil. The difference between them and the clear blue-gray eyes of his assumed form was jarring. "Well, I -- erm, that is, you could always go back to teaching, I suppose."

The mouth might have been that of a stranger, but the scornful quirk at the corner was all Snape. "Because I had such joy in it the first go-'round?"

"Well, there's always the Dark Arts -- "

"I'm sure Professor Savage would be most accommodating about relinquishing his post at Hogwarts," Snape observed dryly.

Feeling effectively blocked, Hermione said, "Well, what have you always wanted to do?"

He gave her a thin smile. "Have you ever stopped to consider I might be doing it now?"

She had no answer to that, because of course she never had thought such a thing might be true. After all, hadn't Professor Snape wanted the Defense position the entire time she had been at Hogwarts? If he had been so eager to abandon Potions, she couldn't imagine he would be content to spend the rest of his life mixing new elixirs and researching novel uses for long-established ingredients. "No," she said at last.

"Ah," he said, and once again it seemed he was laughing at her, at the sheer impetuosity of youth and its conviction that it knew the best solution for everything.

Well, Hermione could understand the attraction of pure research, of expanding the boundaries of knowledge. Certainly she had to admit that Professor Snape did not possess the best temperament to be working with children. "If you want to do research, then why not do it in the open, where your findings can be shared with the rest of the wizard world?"

"What has the wizard world ever done for me?"

So they were back to that. "Have you ever given it a chance to do anything for you?"

"On more occasions than you would know."

Another impasse. She sighed. "So you came all the way down here just to satisfy yourself that I didn't know what I was talking about?"

The calm blue eyes regarded her for a moment. "So you admit you don't."

"I didn't say that."

He picked up his teacup and drank once more. "You wished to distract yourself. This is understandable, I suppose, although one would have hoped you might have channeled your energies into more productive areas. But if you cannot explain clearly to me why it is so important that I return to a world which has always wished to have nothing to do with me, I think you should understand why I have very little desire to participate in your schemes."

A sudden thought struck her. "Don't you want to prove them wrong?"

Her words seemed to give him pause. He stopped, teacup halfway to his lips, and gave her a penetrating stare.

"If you think you've been somehow wronged, why don't you do something about it? Show what you did to help defeat Voldemort! We would never have succeeded if you hadn't sent your Patronus to show us where the Sword was hidden, and -- "

"I do not wish to speak of that."

The words were spoken in a flat tone which allowed no arguments. Hermione stared at Snape, willing him to understand, to see it was no use to continue avoiding the good he had done. Was he ashamed that his Patronus took on the same form as Lily Potter's? How long was he going to treat his feelings for her as something shameful? How could he even think such a thing, when apparently everything good he had ever done had been motivated by his love for her?

"Well, I suppose we don't have to mention that particular detail," she said after a brief hesitation. "But really, Professor, if Harry could convince the Ministry not to send the Malfoys to Azkaban after all they'd done, I'm sure he could do wonders for you!"

"I do not need Potter's help," Snape replied, in tones of chilling finality. "If your plans involve Harry Potter pleading my case, then our conversation is over."

_It was over before it started_, Hermione thought hopelessly. _So what do I do now?_

She gazed back at him, and it seemed that his features began to bubble and shift as she watched. "The potion's wearing off," she remarked.

He put up one hand to his cheek. "So it is. I have more with me, but I assume it will not be needed, if I have your permission to Disapparate from inside the house."

"Of course," she said automatically, fascinated by the shifting planes of his face. Of course she'd drunk Polyjuice Potion herself, but it was still something of a novelty to watch the transformation in someone else.

Within a few seconds, Professor Snape had returned to his old self, his lank black hair and pale face somehow incongruous above the brown bomber jacket and blue jumper he wore.

"That's better," Hermione remarked without thinking.

He shot her an incredulous look. "Better?"

Was it really so astonishing to him that someone might find his features interesting? She'd been teased for her own appearance enough during her formative years that she'd come to appreciate the nuances of a face most others wouldn't find terribly prepossessing. So his nose was long and hooked, and his hair shapeless and dull. His eyes were fascinating, and the bones of his face were actually quite good, with the high cheekbones and sculpted jaw.

"I suppose I'm just used to you looking this way," she amended.

For a long moment he stared down at her. Suddenly Hermione was conscious of how alone they were here, of how no one in the world knew that Severus Snape was even alive, let along sitting next to her in her own home. For the first time she became aware that while he might have once been her instructor, he was also a man. She'd never thought such a thing before. Nor had she noticed what fine hands he had, long and strong and somehow elegant, despite the calluses and inevitable ink stains on his fingertips.

Her world felt as if it had tilted slightly on its axis. She shouldn't be noticing such things, not about any man, and certainly not about Severus Snape, of all people.

"I'd best clear this up," she said, tearing her gaze away from his and focusing on the empty teacups that sat before them. Her hands shook a little as she gathered up the cups and took them over to the counter next to the sink.

"And I should be going." He stood, pausing next to his seat. "This has been most educational."

Now, what on earth did he mean by that? Hermione turned from the sink to see him regarding her carefully. Then he said, "You have my leave to come to Yorkshire again," just before he whirled off into nothingness, shabby jacket and worn jeans disappearing with much less pomp than the usual swirl of wizard's robes that would accompany such a movement.

She gazed at the space he had occupied, the place where he had pushed his chair out from the table. What on earth was wrong with her? How could she have possibly entertained such notions about Severus Snape, if even for a few seconds? Perhaps she really had gone mad.

Still, mad or no, she knew nothing would stop her from returning to Yorkshire, not now that she had what amounted to an open invitation.

* * *

The next day Hermione returned to the Ministry, though not, thankfully, to her temporary post in the Office of Financial Services. No, she went back to her familiar desk in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, where she immediately set about incorporating some of the notes she had made at home into her series of pamphlets on house-elf education. She had only been about it for a few hours, however, when a pale violet paper airplane flew past her ear and descended to the center of the desk.

It was a quiet morning; Athena Carncross and Matilda Thatcher had stepped out for a cup of tea, and Perseus Jones had wandered off to Obliviator HQ, muttering something about needing advice as to whether a particularly virulent outbreak of doxies in Hampstead merited Obliviator intervention. Hermione doubted it was quite so serious, and suspected instead that Perseus wished to chat up the new and very pretty witch who had just been posted to that department. Whatever the case, there was no one around to watch her as she opened the violet paper and read its contents. _Minister Shacklebolt requests your presence in his office at eleven a.m. sharp_.

A sick feeling started in the pit of her stomach. Had the Minister somehow discovered her activities in the Gringotts Owlery? Even worse, had he someone managed to divine her purpose for being there? She would face whatever reprisals Kingsley Shacklebolt might feel compelled to bring against her, but she couldn't bear the thought that somehow she might have betrayed Professor Snape's whereabouts to the Minister.

Or perhaps he already knew. Just because no one in OFS seemed to care they were disbursing payments to someone presumed dead didn't mean the rest of the Ministry was quite so dense. But Harry had known nothing, and he was already highly placed in the Auror department, young as he was. Surely if Harry had remained ignorant of Snape's continued existence, then it stood to reason that probably everyone else did as well.

Around and around her thoughts chased themselves, and Hermione found she couldn't concentrate at all on the task at hand. At last she abandoned her quill altogether and went to some of her neglected filing. The wizard who had filled her post while she worked in the Office of Financial Services had apparently not been quite as dedicated as she about keeping the desk clear, and there was quite an oversized stack to be dealt with.

The mindless task kept her occupied until the fateful eleven o'clock hour, at which time she informed Athena that she had a meeting with the Minister and would be back as soon as she could. Athena didn't appear terribly interested; the parchment before her looked rather lumpy, and Hermione guessed that once again the other witch had hidden a copy of the _Prophet_ under the document she was supposed to be working on. No one else seemed to care, and Hermione didn't have time to worry about it; she just headed off to the banks of lifts after allowing herself a disapproving head shake.

She squeezed in amongst a group of witches and wizards she vaguely recognized but didn't know by name. It was almost impossible to know everyone who worked at the Ministry, after all -- hundreds of wizard folk were employed there, and most of them seemed to stick with others from their same departments. As they rose toward Level 1, more and more people got off the lift, until Hermione was left alone to make her exit on the level reserved for the Minister and his support staff.

Although her own offices down on Level 4 were rather shabby and for some reason always seemed to smell of burnt toast, the floor occupied by the Minister's staff was much more impressive. Here were echoed the black marble and gilt fittings of the Atrium, although in a more subdued fashion. A very smartly dressed witch sitting at the enormous reception desk greeted Hermione as she approached.

"The Minister is waiting for you, Mrs. Granger-Weasley," she said. "All the way at the end of the hall. You can't miss it."

Hermione murmured a thank-you and continued in the direction the other witch had indicated. The low heels of her boots seemed to make an overly loud clacking sound as she made her way to the double doors situated at the corridor's terminus. When she got there, the doors both swung inward, and she stepped inside.

Kingsley Shacklebolt rose from behind his desk. "Ah, Hermione."

She offered him an uncertain smile. "Good morning, Minister."

The last time she had seen him had been at Ron's memorial service; the Minister didn't have much call to visit her department. As always he wore impeccably draped robes in a rich jewel color; today they were deep blue accented in gold. Hermione felt inwardly relieved that she had put on her own new dark-green robes in preparation for her return to the office. At least she knew she looked well enough, even if she didn't currently feel that way.

He indicated the carved wooden chair that faced his desk. "Do sit down."

Although his expression was pleasant and nothing in his tone seemed to indicate any dissatisfaction with her, she still felt her nerve endings thrumming with unease as she took her eat. The black and gold theme continued in the Minister's office, although two of the walls were lined with books, and an enormous map of England covered the space behind the desk. As she watched, she saw points on it moving every which way and realized it must be enchanted to show the activities of Ministry officials throughout the country.

"I've heard very good things about your work in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures," Shacklebolt went on. "I know the house-elf cause is very dear to your heart. However, I've brought you here to ask if perhaps you would consider a change in scenery."

"A change, Minister?"

He nodded. "We currently have an investigator opening in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. The Improper Use of Magic division, to be precise. Would you be interested in a transfer? Technically it would also be a promotion, as the position is several grades above the one you currently hold."

For a few seconds Hermione could only stare at the Minister. After all her worry that she had been caught out, her anxiety that somehow she had betrayed Severus Snape with her maneuvering at Gringotts, Kingsley Shacklebolt had summoned her here because he wanted to give her a promotion? The feeling of relief was so great she had to bite back the impulse to let out a nervous laugh.

Once she thought she had sufficiently recovered herself, she replied, "I'm honored, sir. Although I do have some important house-elf publications that are not yet done -- "

He brushed away her concerns with a wave of his hand. "I'm sure you can turn over your work to someone else in your department. We would need you to start right away. Do you accept the position?"

It was a great honor, Hermione knew. Only the best and the brightest worked in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Although she had never had Auror ambitions as Harry and Ron did, she had dreamed of one day being able to work in the department in some capacity. And to be offered such a promotion at such a young age -- well, she would be a fool to turn it down. She'd simply have to work out a way to finish off the outstanding projects at her current position, even if she took them home with her in the evening to see them through to completion.

Her voice steady, she said, "I accept, sir."

His dark eyes twinkled. "Excellent. I'll send word on down for the transfer to take place immediately. Your new supervisor will be Milton Cornish -- report to him once you've cleared off your desk and gotten your things together."

"Thank you, Minister," Hermione replied, her head swimming. Things were moving so rapidly, she hadn't quite had time to process the changes. Only now was it beginning to sink in that when she returned to her familiar desk, she would only be there long enough to pack up her things and move them to her new situation.

"We all expect great things of you, Hermione. I hope that faith will be rewarded."

As did she, but she managed to duck her head and say, "Of course, sir," before he ushered her out of the office.

The witch at the front desk called out a cheery "Congratulations!" as Hermione passed by. News certainly did seem to travel fast in the Ministry.

When she returned to the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, she was greeted with more well wishes, although those of Athena seemed tinged with just the slightest bit of jealousy. _Well, you'll never get a promotion by reading Rita Skeeter's gossip column when you should be working_, Hermione thought, but she accepted the congratulations as best she could and then hastened to pack up her desk. If she worked quickly enough, she should be able to get up to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement before lunch.

Still feeling as if she were in a dream, Hermione gathered up the box holding her belongings and returned once more to the lifts. She had been in the Magical Law Enforcement offices on many occasions when she'd met Ron there as he got off work at the end of the day, but she hadn't thought she would be working there herself any time in the near future. On this level the floors were businesslike gray slate, the walls smooth and off-white. After stepping out of the lift she followed the signs to the Improper Use of Magic Office, which turned out to be a series of interconnected rooms two corridors down from Auror headquarters.

She had never met Milton Cornish before, nor did his face appear familiar, but he was not the sort of person to make an indelible impression. Somewhere in late middle age with wispy graying hair and pleasant if unremarkable features, he seemed the type to fade into the woodwork. However, he did greet Hermione with quite a show of enthusiasm, guiding her to her new office -- which was a real office, and not merely a desk crowded into a workspace with several others.

"Hope you'll be happy here," he said, as he watched Hermione set down her box of personal items on the desktop. "Been in a bit of a pinch lately, being one person short and all. We've got quite a backlog. I expect you don't mind a bit of hard work, though."

"Not at all, Mr. Cornish," Hermione said at once.

"Thought not. You've got that reputation, after all."

She wondered which reputation he meant and decided it was better not to ask. "Would you like me to get started right away, or should I take lunch at the regular time?"

"Oh, take your lunch, of course. It will all still be here when you get back." He pointed to a dismayingly large pile of file folders on top of the file cabinet. "Take a look at the files, give your recommendations. If you need anything, just call."

With that he took himself off, no doubt in search of his own lunch. Repressing a sigh, Hermione glanced over at the stack of folders. Of course she was not afraid of hard work -- far from it -- but she couldn't help but wonder exactly how long the position had been open.

Her stomach growled, and she knew she should go get herself something to eat. On the other hand, she supposed it couldn't hurt to take a peek at the top folder, just to give herself an idea of what she was getting herself into.

She lifted the file and took it over to her desk, then set it down, flipping back the cover to read its contents. As the subject's name met her gaze, Hermione felt a sudden sinking feeling somewhere in her midsection that had nothing to do with her current hunger. Of all the people she might be called in to investigate, why did it have to be him? She blinked, but the careful printing on the page remained the same. It stared up at her, reminding her of years of bad blood and incidents she would just as soon have forgotten.

_Draco Malfoy. _


	8. Falling

My apologies for how long it took to update this story -- I was finishing up a LOTR fic I was writing, and then I started a new job and just didn't have the time or energy to come back to this. But now I feel as if things are more or less back on an even keel (well, as much as they ever are), and I hope to update a little more regularly from here on out. Thank you for your patience and reviews!

* * *

Eight: Falling

Hermione's first instinct -- after she got over the shock of seeing Draco's name in the file -- was to seek out Harry and ask him for some advice. Unfortunately, by the time she'd gotten over to the Auror offices, he'd already left, probably to check on Ginny. Since Ginny's needs of course outweighed Hermione's, she decided it would be best not to attempt looking him up at home. Instead, she ducked into the Leaky Cauldron for a bite of hot soup and then headed straight back to her new office. Once there she picked up the troubling file again, this time forcing herself to read through the particulars. There wasn't much, actually, only a terse comment that there seemed to be a high incidence of Muggle injuries and mishaps occurring in the lands which bordered the Malfoy estate. Coincidence, perhaps, but considering the Malfoys' well-known dislike for nonmagical folk, it didn't seem too odd that the chain of troubling incidents had aroused the suspicion of the Improper Use of Magic Office.

Why Draco should be singled out instead of his father, Hermione couldn't be certain. The elder Malfoy had certainly been lying low since his narrow escape from Azkaban – Hermione couldn't even recall the last time someone she knew had spotted him in London. Perhaps he had passed on the mantle of Muggle-baiting to his son. The Malfoys always did set a great store in tradition.

Still, that didn't mean she had to be the one to handle this particular case. After all, there were three other investigators in her department….

Frowning, she approached Milton Cornish's office with a diffident air and paused outside his open door. "Erm…Mr. Cornish?"

He looked up from the stacks of parchment that littered his desk. "What is it, Hermione?"

His mild tone encouraged her a little. Her previous supervisor had had a bad habit of barking at his subordinates like an angry seal whenever he was interrupted. She stepped forward, holding the Malfoy file in front of her. "It's about this case, sir…."

The faded hazel eyes narrowed. "What about it?"

"Well, that is…I mean, I'm not sure I'm the best person to be working with this file. Perhaps one of the other investigators?"

Cornish's placid expression never changed, but his voice sounded a little sharper as he inquired, "And may I ask the reason for your objection?"

"It's just – " Hermione took a deep breath and said, "Sir, I was in the same year as Draco Malfoy. I'm not sure it's a good idea for me to be the investigator on this case. I might be…a little too close to the subject."

"I see." Milton Cornish folded his hands on the desktop and gave her the slightest of frowns. "While I understand your concerns, I'm afraid I can't take you off this case. The wizarding world is a very small place, Hermione. If I allowed my investigators to avoid handling cases that involved former classmates, or people who shared their House, or who were distantly related to them…well, I would have a difficult time following any of these investigations to a conclusion, now, wouldn't I?"

Reluctantly, Hermione nodded. What he said was true, of course, but that didn't mean she had to like it very much.

"I would never ask one of my staff to investigate a husband, or a brother or sister, or a parent, of course," her supervisor went on. "But Draco Malfoy is none of these things to you, correct?"

"No, sir," Hermione replied immediately. "We were simply in the same year at school and had a few…run-ins, I suppose you would call them."

"Well, then," Cornish said, as if that explained everything. Apparently he noticed her pained expression, for he added, "This can be a difficult job, Hermione – make no mistake about it. But everything I've heard of you leads me to believe you're not someone to shy away from something simply because it's difficult. Am I mistaken in this belief?"

How had he known to say the one thing that effectively defused any further arguments on her part? "No, sir," Hermione answered at once. "I'll make sure I bring no bias to this investigation, and I'll follow every possible lead."

He smiled then. "Yes, I'm sure you will."

* * *

Stout words to Milton Cornish to the contrary, Hermione was feeling anything but determined by the time she left work that afternoon. She'd hoped she could at least have a private conversation with Harry some time after lunch, but it happened he was out of the office for the rest of the day on Auror business. What that business was exactly, no one would tell her. She supposed that was sensible; although her own department was technically in the same division as the Aurors, their duties did not overlap much. Even in these days following Voldemort's defeat there were those who dabbled in the Dark Arts, mostly for their own petty personal gain. So far no dark wizard of Voldemort's stature had risen to challenge the Ministry, but the Auror department was still kept busy enough disposing of black grimoires and hexed objects, not to mention investigating those who didn't seem to think using dark magic as a way to get ahead in the world merited any particular attention.

Hermione Floo'd home and took care of her regular chores, then sat on her much-maligned couch, considering her next course of action. Because of her background, she had better skills than most at blending in with Muggle society; she supposed the next thing to do would be to head off to Wiltshire and make some discreet inquiries in the villages and farms surrounding the Malfoy estate. If she dug up enough corroborating evidence, she could take her findings to Milton Cornish for his recommendations. She permitted herself an inner feeling of relief at knowing that it wasn't her department's responsibility to enforce the Ministry's will – that would fall to the Aurors.

None of this, however, explained why the Malfoys would choose to muddy the waters at this particular point in time. Certainly it was in their best interests not to rouse suspicion, nor to attract any undue attention. What could be so important that they were willing to risk Ministry scrutiny in order to keep any wayward Muggles off their property?

It came to her then – surely the best person to give her insight into Malfoy psychology would be Severus Snape. After all, he had been Draco's Head of House, not to mention someone who had known Lucius Malfoy fairly well. Perhaps he could give her some of the information she lacked. And after all, hadn't he told her she was welcome to return to Yorkshire if she wished?

Glad to have a direction, Hermione rose and went to fetch her heavy wool traveling cloak, then Disapparated. She welcomed the crushing pressure, if only because it told her she finally had some sort of purpose.

* * *

The skies above Snape's forlorn cottage were lowering and promised new snow in the near future. Hermione pulled her cloak more tightly about her, but she needn't have bothered – the door to the cottage opened within a few seconds of her arriving on the front step.

"Couldn't stay away, I see," said the Potions master, giving her a sardonic look.

"You did invite me," Hermione replied.

The faintest suggestion of a sigh. "That I did. Very well – come in."

He stepped aside and allowed her to enter. As before, the cottage was warm and tinted ochre and honey by firelight and candlelight. Mixed with the scent of smoke and beeswax was the more pungent odor of boiled marigold and something Hermione couldn't quite identify.

"One moment," Snape said, going to the cauldron on the ancient stovetop and giving its contents a single deliberate stir. The pungent smell softened into something resembling a mixture of sandalwood and amber.

Hermione wanted to inquire as to what he was concocting, but decided that might be considered too intrusive. Instead, she told him, "Actually, I've come for some advice."

He glanced over at her then, his mouth twitching slightly. "Indeed? I'm surprised you would admit to such a weakness."

"Going to others for help isn't a weakness," she retorted. Why must he always see the worst in everything? She added, not bothering to keep the bitterness out of her voice, "I would think you might realize I'm not quite the 'insufferable know-it-all' I used to be."

"As to that, I suppose we shall have to see."

Angry words bubbled to her lips, but Hermione paused, seeing the glint in Snape's black eyes. Could it be that he was _teasing_ her?

"I suppose you shall," she replied in airy tones.

Appearing to abandon the point for now, he asked, "So what is this advice you require?"

At his question she hesitated. What would be the best way to phrase her request? She hadn't stopped to consider that Professor Snape might still consider the Malfoys to be his friends, and perhaps he wouldn't take kindly to the thought of betraying their confidences. On the other hand, it certainly appeared that neither Lucius nor Draco had done much to discover whether their old compatriot and favorite teacher truly had met his end in the Shrieking Shack. Perhaps Severus Snape possessed secrets of theirs they would very much rather stay buried.

Whatever the case, Hermione decided then and there that she would always be honest with him. He deserved that at least, and if he declined to help her, so be it. Besides, there was always the very good chance he'd be able to look straight at her and know she was lying. In that moment she wished she could have been included in Harry's Occlumency lessons. Never mind that Harry had said they were rubbish and a complete waste of time -- at least perhaps she would be able to tell if Snape were practicing that obscure art on her.

So she squared her shoulders and said, "I got a promotion -- to the Improper Use of Magic office."

"And are you expecting some sort of congratulations?"

"No," she replied, stung. "That's not the point at all."

He made a small motion with one hand, and the flame under the cauldron went out. "Am I then to assume that this promotion is at least germane to the advice you seek?"

"Yes. I was given my assignments today -- and who should be on the top of the pile? Draco Malfoy."

As Hermione spoke she watched Snape carefully, but her revelation elicited very little response. Perhaps his right eyebrow lifted the tiniest fraction. In tones of supreme unconcern, he asked, "Is young Malfoy misbehaving?"

"That's what I have to find out. Apparently there's been a high number of 'accidents' befalling the Muggles who live in the vicinity of the Malfoy estate. Perhaps it's just an anomaly…or perhaps not."

Without speaking Snape went to the cupboard and pulled out two heavy greenish glass goblets. Hermione watched in some trepidation, then relaxed slightly when she realized he was doing nothing more threatening than fetching them both some water. She took the goblet he handed her and sipped. It was very good, with a slight mineral aftertaste. Perhaps he had a well or a spring somewhere on the property.

"If you've come to ask whether I think Draco is capable of such things, of course he is." Snape lifted his shoulders; Hermione realized that today he was wearing his old robes, although they looked rather rusty in hue and somewhat frayed around the edges. "While the boy certainly has a better nature -- consider his inability to kill Dumbledore, even at the Dark Lord's command -- I know his forbearance would not extend to any Muggles who got in his way. The more important question is why he would do such a thing in the first place."

Feeling relieved beyond measure that Snape hadn't dismissed her question out of hand, Hermione asked, "Can you think of a reason? If it isn't simple malice, that is."

The Potions master regarded her carefully for a moment, and she had to force herself to meet his black stare. Then he shook his head. "Not with any certainty. Even I don't know all that Malfoy Manor held. It may simply be that Lucius managed to hang onto a few artifacts he'd rather the Aurors not know he possessed. Although that doesn't make much sense -- the estate is ringed around with Muggle-repelling spells, and inflicting physical harm on nonmagical folk isn't the best way to escape notice." He shrugged once more and continued, in tones so dry one could almost ignore the bitterness that underlay them, "I cannot speak for Lucius or Draco, of course, seeing as we have been somewhat out of contact these past few years."

Once again Hermione felt a rush of unexpected pity. She wondered whether Severus Snape had truly counted himself a friend of Lucius Malfoy's, and, if so, how difficult it must have been for him to keep himself hidden all these years, not even attempting to reach out to one of the few people he'd allowed to become close. As she recalled Lucius' cold, patrician features, she thought the elder Malfoy didn't seem the type to be a particularly good friend, but even he would be better than nothing.

Taking care to keep her own voice cool and impersonal, mimicking Snape's tones, she said, "You mentioned artifacts. What sort of artifacts?"

"I don't know of all of them. Narcissa had an enchanted set of jewels that would change color depending on what she wore. I never saw it, but I heard rumors of a cursed suit of armor somewhere in the dungeons that, once put on, would turn the wearer into a killing machine who could not take off the armor until he had killed a hundred men." Snape must have seen her blanch, for he inquired, in dry tones devoid of concern, "Surely, after all you've seen, you don't still believe the wizarding world to be completely benign?"

"No," Hermione replied, irritated he would think her such an innocent. "Of course not. But I hope I never lose the capacity to be shocked by the evil that men do."

"How correct of you."

"I thought I'd try that for a while," she retorted. "After all, I have plenty of time to be bitter and jaded."

Once again he surprised her with a very small smile. "What a relief it must be for you to finally be able to speak your mind."

"Actually, yes, it is," Hermione admitted, giving him a smile of her own. "I like talking to you."

The eyebrow quirked again. "We're far past the need for flattery, don't you think?"

"It's not flattery, it's the truth." She set down her glass on the kitchen counter and turned to see him watching her with the familiar sardonic curl to his thin lips. "I'm so dreadfully tired of people tiptoeing around me like they think I'm going to break. Even on days when I think things have gone back to normal, I'll look up to see my coworkers or my family watching me as if they expect me to fall apart at any second. It's so exhausting. These days I'd rather have sarcasm than unrelenting concern."

He continued to watch her closely, and for the first time she saw the faintest softening of the hard lines of his mouth. "You are a remarkable young woman."

She managed a shaky laugh. "Now who's flattering whom?"

"I simply stated a fact. If this is a time for confessions, I will say now that I often wished you had been sorted into Slytherin. It seemed a waste for a mind such as yours to be squandered in Gryffindor, a House that could not fully appreciate its subtleties."

In response all she could do was stare back at him, feeling rather as she had the first time she had Disapparated -- as if Hagrid's giant brother Grawp had punched her repeatedly in the midsection. Had Snape just paid her a _compliment_?

She'd never been able to accept praise gracefully, and so she lifted her shoulders and said, "I have a feeling Draco and his cabal might've had a few choice words about a Mudblood like me polluting the Slytherin common room."

Snape looked thunderous. "Don't ever call yourself that!"

Shocked by the vehemence of his tone, Hermione said at once, "It's no more than what they called me on numerous occasions."

"That does not make it right."

"No," she replied. "Of course not." And she realized then of course Lily Evans had been Muggle-born, and, according to Harry, Snape had flung that same epithet at her on at least one occasion. As she watched the rare display of warring emotions on Severus Snape's face, Hermione wondered if he had ever forgiven himself for uttering that hateful phrase.

His black eyes met hers, and she stared up at him. Again she had that odd sensation of feeling off balance, as if something about the universe had slipped out of alignment. Could she really be thinking of how fine the straight line of his brows actually was, or how the candlelight softened the harsh contours of his nose?

They stood that way in silence for a few seconds, until Hermione blinked and glanced away. She could recall some of this awkwardness with Ron, those endless pauses where her mind tried to tell her logically she couldn't be looking at her friend in that way, that she couldn't be wondering what it would be like for him to kiss her. Only this was a hundred -- a thousand -- times worse, because now she found herself thinking these same things about Severus Snape of all people, the man who had mocked her and castigated her friends, who was old enough to be her father, who had been her _professor_, for God's sake!

"I -- I had better go," she stammered at last, wishing her voice didn't sound so weak, so ineffectual. Where had the confident Hermione gone, the one who always knew what she was going to say at least five minutes before she said it? "You've been very helpful, really -- "

Another one of those interminable silences. His face was inscrutable, revealing nothing. Had he looked into her mind? Had he seen the unthinkable there? Or was he merely considering the best way to make his farewells and phrase them so that he made it very clear he desired no further interruptions? What she would do then, Hermione had no idea. The thought of not seeing him again felt like a fresh wound slashed across the surface of a half-healed scar.

At last he said, "A little instruction in Occlumency would not have been amiss in your case as well, Miss Granger."

Heat flooded her face then. So he had seen. Looked into her mind and saw the weakness there, the inexplicable feelings for a man who should have been no more to her than an unpleasant piece of a past long gone.

She wished she could think of a clever retort, but her wits seemed to have deserted her. Instead she only whispered, "Damn you," and turned to go. Maybe she couldn't Disapparate from within the cottage, but she'd get the hell out of here the second her foot crossed the line of anti-Apparition spells he had cast.

But even as she spun away from Severus Snape, she felt his hand wrap itself around her upper arm, forcing her back toward him. He was slender, but his fingers were very strong; Hermione knew she could only remove herself from his grasp by a struggle, and that seemed too undignified. She had already shamed herself enough -- she would not continue the process by wriggling in his grip like a guilty first year caught wandering the halls after curfew. So she only stood there, staring up into his face with an expression of what she hoped was affronted dignity.

"Why?" he asked, an echo of the same question he had asked her when she first came to confront him here in Yorkshire. This time, however, the meaning was entirely different.

And now she had no ready answer. She couldn't explain her emotions even to herself -- oh, back in the day she had been ready enough to defend Snape to Harry and Ron if she thought they were being unreasonable in their criticism of the Potions master. Time had proven her to be correct, but it was still a giant step to move from standing up for an unpopular professor to wondering what it would feel like for that same man's arms to go around her and pull her close. Perhaps it was simply because Snape hadn't bothered to treat her as that inexplicable creature known as a widow, but had spoken to her directly, as one individual to another, with no false sympathy or unwanted concern.

Hermione wished it were so simple, but somehow she knew the situation involved more than that. If she wanted to be completely honest with herself, she'd admit now the attraction had been there a long time, buried and ignored and denied. Even back at Hogwarts she'd had that dream….

So long ago, she'd forgotten she'd ever had it -- until now. Perhaps it had been the trigger of his hand on her arm, the first voluntary touch she'd ever had from Severus Snape. And really, the dream had been so silly, so easily dismissed…just a snippet of her day bound together with all the other fragments of the waking world that composed her dream life. In her dream she had been kept back for detention, one lone black-clad student in the echoing chamber of the Potions classroom. She'd been set to copy potion receipt after potion receipt onto clean parchment until her hand ached and her fingers could barely grasp the quill. Up until the very end of the dream the Potions master had been conspicuously absent, but at last he appeared at her shoulder and bent over to scrutinize her work. As he did so a lock of his hair grazed her cheek, even as she felt his robes brush against hers. A thrill had rushed through her, a wave of longing as inexplicable as it was unwanted. Nothing else had happened in the dream that she could recall; she had awoken soon afterward, feeling faintly ashamed. And she'd shoved the memory of the dream away until now, thinking it unimportant and foolish.

But perhaps it hadn't been so foolish, or at least not insignificant. Perhaps it had been that long-buried memory which provided the impetus for her to seek out Severus Snape in the first place. Perhaps she had wanted to know what it would be like to see him once again, only this time as a grown woman, not as a student. What would have been wildly inappropriate years ago would only be rather unsuitable today, given their respective situations.

Hermione realized he still stared down at her, obviously expecting an answer. She had none to give, however, save the realization that she had been misleading herself for a very long time.

"Why not?" she asked in reply, since all other words seemed to have failed her. Now he would laugh at her or make some sneering remark.

But instead he echoed, "Why not?" and then drew her against him, his robes sweeping around to envelop her, even as his mouth pressed against hers.

His kiss felt very different from Ron's kisses. Severus Snape's lips were thin but strong, meeting her own mouth with insistent force. He tasted of nothing except the faintest cool aftertaste of the spring water they had been drinking. And then there was the sensation of his hair falling against her cheek, not greasy at all but heavy and slick and warm, the feel of his lean body still somehow distinct beneath the bulky garments.

All these months she might as well have been as dead as Ron. Surely Hermione had never expected to feel this way again, to feel the heat running through her veins like dragon fire and the familiar throbbing in the pit of her stomach. She had never thought she might allow herself to feel so alive. Yet this was different, because somehow she knew that Ron had never made her feel quite like this. With Ron she had always been the one in control, but she knew she would not be able to direct Severus Snape the way she had Ron Weasley. And as much as she hated to admit it to herself, she found she rather liked the sensation. She wanted to lose herself in his arms, to drown herself in the depths of his swirling black robes.

They broke apart at last, although Hermione fancied she could still feel the touch of Severus' lips on hers. Part of her wanted to run away, to hide her face so she could weep with shame over her betrayal of Ron, but she knew she would not allow herself to behave in such a way. Not when she knew, deep down, that she had wanted this for a very long time.

"That's really not why I came here, you know," she said.

Snape raised an eyebrow. "Indeed?"

At once she retorted, "If I recall correctly, you're the one who initiated the kiss."

"So I did," he replied, in tones so mild they were almost more mocking than his usual open sarcasm.

Hermione scowled up at him. "And so what do you suggest we do now?"

"Have we retired the subject of the Malfoys?"

Frankly, Draco Malfoy, the incriminating file, and the Improper Use of Magic department seemed about a million miles away at the moment. She lifted her shoulders and said, "I suppose so."

"Good," returned Severus Snape. He bent his head toward hers again, and Hermione allowed herself to forget everything but the feel of his mouth and the heat of his body. Someday soon she'd have to return to the real world, to the mystery of Malfoy Manor, the endless minutiae of her work, the bustle of the Burrow, all the thousand and one disparate elements that made up her life. But for now she lost herself in the embrace of the last man she'd thought she'd ever care for, content to let him become her world.

One little thought wriggled its way into her consciousness, though, and a shadow of unease passed over her even as she let Severus Snape kiss her once more.

_Harry will kill me if he ever finds out…._


	9. New Arrivals and Old Enemies

Well, I was able to update a little faster this time. I'm hoping to get one more chapter done before November hits and I disappear to do NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month.) Thank you for your patience and reviews!

* * *

Nine: New Arrivals and Old Enemies

Of course the aftermath was awkwardness itself -- Hermione had stepped away, cheek hot with embarrassment and her hands shaking. She'd murmured something about having to leave, and Severus did nothing to stop her. He merely nodded and showed her to the door, his own features revealing no hint of what had just passed between them. Indeed, Hermione might have thought the entire exchange just a fevered dream, were it not that on the threshold he raised his hand to cup her cheek, his fingers brushing against her flushed skin. Then he said, "Who would have thought you would grow to be so beautiful?" just before he leaned down and kissed her once again, a hard, swift kiss that was immediately followed by the cottage door slamming shut behind her.

Feeling even more as if she'd been hit repeatedly in the head by a Bludger, Hermione couldn't do much more than stagger away from the house and then gather her wits just enough so she wouldn't end up Splinching herself into oblivion when she Disapparated. As she stumbled into her own dim, snow-dusted front yard, she blinked, straining through the darkness to more clearly determine exactly what she was seeing. On her doorstep sat not one, not two, but three owls, all of them shifting from foot to foot in the agitated manner she'd learned over the years meant they had been waiting for some time.

The afterglow of Severus Snape's kiss abruptly evaporated. At once she hurried over to the three birds and reached out to the one closest to her, a large barn owl she didn't recall ever seeing before. When she unwrapped the parchment from its leg, she immediately recognized the writing the note contained -- Harry's untidy scrawl.

_Where the bloody hell are you?_

_Polite as ever_, Hermione thought, but despite the sense of shaky indignation that one brief sentence had aroused in her, she stepped toward the owl she did recognize, the Weasleys' ancient Errol. He seemed the least agitated of the trio, although perhaps he was just glad of the rest her lengthy absence had afforded him. With an air of weary relief he allowed her to remove the parchment he carried, then ruffled his feathers ever so slightly and sank back down on the doormat.

Hermione unrolled the parchment and felt a sudden onrush of guilt and worry as she read the brief note in Molly's clear, round hand. _Ginny is in St. Mungo's. We checked at the Ministry, but you'd already gone home. Come as soon as you can._

"Ginny in St. Mungo's" could only mean one thing. Although she was several weeks early, Ginny was over in London about to give birth to her first child -- while Hermione had been off in the wilds of Yorkshire kissing Severus Snape.

The heat flamed in Hermione's cheeks once again, but she knew she didn't have time to stop for self-recriminations. All she could do was Disapparate once again, this time to St. Mungo's…and hope she wouldn't be too late.

After she had Apparated in a safe alley a few blocks away from the hospital and then made her way past the grotty red-brick exterior and "welcoming witch" in the main reception area who was anything but, Hermione found herself surrounded by a group of very worried Weasleys. They were all here, it seemed, right down to little Victoire.

The explosion of redheaded Weasleys around her was somewhat overwhelming after the quiet intensity of Severus' cottage in Yorkshire. Hermione blinked at their exclamations, then focused on Harry, who paused long enough in his anxious pacing to snap, "Took you long enough," before he jammed his hands back in his pockets and stared moodily down the corridor he had been facing.

"I'm so sorry," Hermione managed. "I was out -- erm, walking. I've done quite a bit of that lately. Helps clear my head."

If anyone thought taking a pleasure stroll on a freezing January evening was a bit barmy, they decided to forgo mentioning the fact. Molly gave her a quick hug and said, "Well, the important thing is you're here now. Ginny's still with the Healers -- this one looks as if he's going to take his time."

"How do you know eet is going to be a he?" inquired Fleur, shifting a fidgety Victoire from one arm to another.

"Grandmothers just know these things," Molly replied airily. Fleur rolled her eyes but appeared to decide the subject wasn't worth arguing.

Hermione merely smiled to herself. Although the two had declared an uneasy truce, it was still clear -- at least to her -- that they would keep picking at one another until one of them was in the grave. Perhaps even after, if Molly decided to emulate Mrs. Black and have a highly vocal portrait placed in Bill and Fleur's home.

George appeared to be keeping his father and brothers occupied with some brightly spinning widget that seemed to have no real use except to provide a minor diversion for those who were easily bored in class -- or hospital waiting rooms, Hermione supposed. She stepped over to Harry and said, "I really am sorry. Time just got away from me."

Once again Harry halted his restless pacing. "Must've been some walk."

"What do you mean?"

Those bright green eyes suddenly seemed far too penetrating. "I don't know -- you look sort of…glowing. Your cheeks are pink."

"Just that bracing January air," Hermione replied, hoping she wouldn't betray herself by blushing any more deeply. Of course she hadn't bothered to stop and check her appearance in a mirror before she had rushed over here. Was it really that obvious? Was her mouth still swollen from Severus Snape's importunate kisses?

_He called me beautiful_, she thought then, and despite the fact that Harry kept staring down at her as if she had just turned a particularly interesting shade of purple, Hermione couldn't quell the rush of improbable joy which rushed through her at the realization. Severus Snape, who had probably handed out only three or four compliments during the whole of his existence, had thought she was beautiful.

"Hmpf," said Harry, but it seemed he was too preoccupied at the moment to question her any further. He took a few steps away from her, and then turned back, the strain clear on his face. "Does it always take this long?" he demanded suddenly.

"Erm," Hermione said, feeling at an unaccustomed loss. She usually regarded herself as an expert on most subjects, but pregnancy and childbirth were not matters she had spent a good deal of time researching. She'd always thought she would have plenty of time for that sort of thing later. "How long have you been here?"

"Almost three hours."

Well, she was no authority, but Hermione knew that wasn't a significant amount of time, especially for a first child. "That's nothing," she replied. "My mum was in labor almost twenty hours with me."

Harry looked aghast. "Twenty _hours_?"

This was probably not the time to reveal that, after all those hours of labor, Hermione had finally come into this world via C-section. Despite his Muggle upbringing, Harry shared the wizarding world's horror of "modern medicine," and very likely the thought of someone slicing into Ginny's abdomen to deliver the child would do nothing to improve his state of mind.

"Didn't you and Ginny discuss this at all?" Hermione asked, hoping she didn't sound too desperate.

"Well, of course we did. But she said her mum never had a hard time, and Ginny was out in less than two hours."

_No doubt_, Hermione thought. _By the time number seven came along, Molly probably could have delivered Ginny in between rounds of laundry_. But she knew better than to say such a thing out loud, so Hermione only answered, "Then there you go. I'm sure Ginny will do splendidly. I've heard easy childbirths tend to run in families."

As a matter of fact, she hadn't heard any such a thing, since domestic matters in general tended to bore her, but the statement had the desired effect. Some of the tension went out of Harry's shoulders, and he even managed a wan smile. "That's good," he said. "Molly keeps trying to reassure me, but I don't know how much of it is actually true and how much is just her trying to keep me from tearing my hair out."

Hermione had no way of knowing, either, but she cast a surreptitious glance over her shoulder at Molly, who had settled herself down into one of the waiting room's chairs and had produced an enormous ball of shocking-orange yarn. Repressing a shudder, Hermione could only hope that whatever the shapeless mass of knitting in Molly's lap might be, it wasn't intended for her. Orange had never been a color Hermione particularly cared for. More important than the knitting, however, was the fact that Molly looked rather serene, given the circumstances. Surely if Ginny were in any danger, Molly Weasley wouldn't be sitting there working away at her knitting with an air of placid determination. And even though this wasn't Molly's first grandchild, Ginny was her only daughter, and if there were a problem, she would no doubt have let everyone around her know how worried she was. Molly had never been particularly good at keeping things in.

"I would think Molly knows what she's talking about," Hermione said. "After all, she has been through this seven times."

"True," Harry allowed. "It's just -- you build up to this, and you're off to hospital -- and then it's just more waiting. I've never been very good at waiting."

"Do tell," replied Hermione, in tones dry enough for Severus Snape. Perhaps a little of him had rubbed off in that last encounter.

Her old friend gave her a lopsided grin and said, "That bad, huh?"

"Are you sure you really want me to answer that?"

"Probably not." He hitched his shoulders under the dark robes he wore and added, "I'm glad you made it -- I was starting to worry about you."

"Nothing to worry about," Hermione said, even though once again she could feel the heat begin to burn along her cheekbones. Thank God Harry had never been taught Legilimency! The last thing she needed was for him to pick up the impure thoughts she was having about Severus Snape, even now…. "It's quiet there, in that little woods just down the road from Rosedell. I like to walk there when I get home sometimes. Clears out the cobwebs."

Although Hermione worried that Harry would somehow be able to read the lie on her face, it seemed her fears were for naught. He nodded at once, and gave her a quick sympathetic pat on the arm. "It's been hard for you, I know." His mouth tightened, and he continued, "It's been tough for all of us, but at least Ginny and I had the baby to think about, and you -- "

_And I had nothing_, Hermione thought, _just a void where Ron used to be, and an empty space in the bed beside me each night_. She knew she shouldn't be thinking such things, that such paths inevitably led to a prolonged encounter with a box of tissues or her handkerchief, but for some reason she didn't feel the expected stinging of tears at the back of her eyes, or the usual hard little lump in her throat. Could her calm now somehow be the result of her last meeting with Severus Snape?

_Well, that's rich_, her mind mocked her. _Just a few kisses from dear Professor Snape, and it's all better? Are you turning into one of those silly women who thinks she needs a man around to make her complete?_

She wished it were that simple. She wished she could just deride the experience as arising from a foolish desire to find someone -- anyone -- to take Ron's place. But Hermione knew it was far more than that. Over the past six months she'd kept to herself and certainly not done anything to attract the attention of men, but lately she'd been surprised on occasion by an admiring glance given in passing in the corridors of the Ministry, or while she was shopping in Diagon Alley. If she'd wished to pursue any of the young men who had looked at her in such a way -- and Lord knows they were all far more suitable than Severus Snape -- she could have done so. No, there was something in Severus' soul that called out to her, some resonance she would never have guessed existed if it weren't for the time they had spend together over the past few weeks. Perhaps it sprang from their mutual isolation. Perhaps it was simply that, deep down, she knew she had a mind few could match, including Ron Weasley, no matter how much she loved him. In Severus, perhaps she had finally found her equal.

That thought felt disloyal in the extreme, and Hermione knew if she'd ever dared to voice such a thing out loud, she'd feel even more terrible for saying it. But now, in the privacy of her own mind, she allowed herself the freedom to acknowledge the fact that Ron, for all his qualities – his courage, his compassion, his humor, and his strength – couldn't begin to compare to her intellectually. This had never bothered her much, since she had known from an early age that very few people could measure up to her level of intelligence. She had dismissed her intellect to Harry once as "books and cleverness," but of course it was far more than that. Mere cleverness could only get one so far.

Severus, on the other hand – well, he had the book learning to match the quickness of mind that Hermione had seen all too often during Potions class. More than once she'd had to keep from smiling at the lightning-fast retorts and insults he doled out. Luckily she'd only been the target of Professor Snape's sharp tongue a few times, although Harry and Ron of course had not escaped so easily. And although she'd disapproved of their use, she couldn't argue with the brilliance of the spells Severus had invented while still at student at Hogwarts. Even now, when he could have been wasting his exile in brooding despair, instead he filled his days with concocting potions and conducting further research into the uses of various plants and extracts. While she still couldn't quite understand his need for isolation, Hermione couldn't say he hadn't been spending his time wisely.

"It's all right," she said at length, after realizing that Harry had been staring down at her with a worried little pucker between his brows. "Really. I mean, I've had six months to deal with this. I'm not saying it'll ever be fine, but at least I don't feel quite as overwhelmed as I did at the beginning."

"You've been doing really well," Harry said. "Everyone thinks so. And I heard about your promotion this morning. Congratulations -- I wanted to drop by and say so in person, but then Ginny…"

"Oh, don't worry about that," Hermione broke in. "You had a lot on your mind."

Harry nodded, then cast another one of those worried little glances down the corridor. Hermione supposed Ginny's room must be somewhere in that direction. "I went to see Ginny at lunch, and she said she was having some pains but tried to tell me that was normal. Well, I don't know what 'normal' is for these sorts of things, but I thought it better to get in touch with Molly, just in case. She told us to come over here at once, so we did – not without Ginny protesting the whole way, of course. It wasn't until one of the Healers told her she really was in labor that she believed it."

Well, that much Hermione could believe. Ginny had a stubborn streak, and she might have decided in her own mind that of course she couldn't be having labor pains, not almost three weeks before she was due.

"But everything's fine?" Hermione asked.

"As far as I know." Harry ran a hand through his hair, making it stick up more than ever. The contrast between his somber robes and disheveled hair was almost comical. "The Healer came out and spoke with us about five minutes before you got here, just to let us know that everything was all right but it might still be some time." He grinned then, and added, "I was in with Ginny for awhile, but after the last bout of contractions, when she started saying it was all my fault for her being in this situation and she was going to Bat-Bogey me into next week once she could concentrate, I thought it was probably better to wait out here."

The whole thing sounded so typically Ginny that Hermione laughed. "Yes, I suppose I can see that!"

Harry grinned, but somehow the smile never reached his eyes. Once again he glanced away from Hermione, his gaze straying toward the place where Ginny must be straining to bring his first child into the world.

Not knowing what else to do, Hermione decided perhaps she should try to distract him with an entirely different topic of conversation. "So guess who's my first investigation?"

"What?"

Harry looked as if he were paying about as much attention to their conversation as he had to their History of Magic classes, but Hermione pressed on anyway. "In the Improper Use of Magic office? My new position? Anyhow, I open the first file, and whose name is staring up at me? Draco Malfoy!"

For the first time Harry seemed to focus on her words. "Malfoy?"

"That's what I just said," she replied, not bothering to keep the testy note from her voice. "I was hoping you might have heard something."

"Me?" Harry shook his head. "No, nothing. As far as I can tell, the Malfoys have been trying to act as squeaky clean as possible lately. I don't think Lucius has even been seen in London for at least a year."

Well, that confirmed what Hermione had already guessed. "So no one in the Auror department has had to deal with them?"

Harry gave a short, humorless laugh. "Hardly. Believe me, that lot don't want to see any of us knocking on their door."

No doubt, which left Hermione with no reason why the Malfoys would be involved in something that resulted in a suspicious concentration of wounded Muggles in their vicinity. She explained what had brought the Ministry's attention to the Malfoys in the first place, and then added, "I know they probably have Muggle-repelling charms all around their estate, but those sorts of spells don't involve injuring people – they just give them an urgent reason to be someplace else. So what could it be?"

"I haven't a bloody idea. Not that I don't think Draco's capable of hurting a bunch of Muggles – I'm sure he'd probably enjoy it – but he's not stupid enough to want to attract that sort of attention."

Which Hermione had thought as well, thus bringing her neatly back to square one. So what exactly _was_ going on at the Malfoys' estate in Wiltshire? Hermione opened her mouth to reply, and was interrupted by the sudden arrival of an older woman wearing the lime-green robes of St. Mungo's Healer staff. The woman smiled and said, "Mr. Potter, I have someone you'd like to meet."

For a second Harry just looked at her blankly. Then he stammered, "You mean – has she -- ?"

"Yes, Mr. Potter. You have a healthy baby boy."

Again he hesitated, as if her words hadn't quite sunk in. Then a blazing smile spread across his features, and he bolted down the corridor toward Ginny's room. Hermione watched him go, feeling a strange mixture of joy and sorrow war within herself. Of course she was happy for Harry and Ginny, glad that they were able to start the family Harry had always wanted so desperately, but seeing her friend's happiness just brought home to Hermione how alone she was.

Or was she? The memory of Severus Snape's mouth on hers, his arms around her, came back to her with sudden force. But had his embrace really meant anything, or was he just responding to his own loneliness and the desire he had seen in her thoughts?

Hermione didn't have time to dwell on the subject any longer, for a tide of Weasleys swirled up and around her as the news sank in. They carried her along to Ginny's room, where a pale but triumphant young woman proudly displayed the carefully bundled infant she held in her arms.

"He looks just like Harry, don't you think?" Ginny asked.

Frankly, Hermione didn't think the baby, who was red-faced and squalling away with a vigor that showed he had nothing wrong with his lungs, looked like much of anyone at all. However, he did have a healthy head of black hair, so in that he favored the Potter men more than the Weasleys, if nothing else.

Instead of giving a direct answer, she replied, "So what's his name?"

"James Sirius Potter," Harry answered immediately.

Hermione should have expected that – she had known "James" and "Lily" had been bandied about as possible names for the child, depending on its sex. The introduction of "Sirius" was something of a surprise, though. For some reason she had thought Harry might have included "Albus" in his son's name.

_I hope he grows up to be a little more prudent than his namesake_, she thought, but she only smiled and said, "He's a beautiful baby."

George flashed a wicked grin and interjected, "Beautiful? He looks like the wrong end of a Blast-Ended Skrewt!"

"George!" cried Molly, Fleur, and Ginny all at once, and then the scene devolved into a vociferous argument as to whether newborns could ever be attractive, with Molly vigorously defending James Sirius's good looks and her sons asserting that he was far too red and crumpled to be anything close to attractive.

Feeling a little overwhelmed, Hermione inched her way back toward the door, where she planned to make her escape as soon as she could without looking horribly impolite. Not that Harry and Ginny would even notice her absence, given the crush of Weasleys all around the bed. She looked on as the group continued their lively chatter, wishing she possessed the inclination to join in, and wondering if she would ever truly feel part of the family again, now that Ron was gone…and now she knew she had begun to give her heart to another.

* * *

The next day Hermione found herself in Diagon Alley. Although she had already bought Ginny several baby presents, she had heard one of the other young women at the Ministry talking about something called Nolly's No-Nasty Nappies, a new type of diapers that apparently cleaned themselves, thus freeing new mothers from the drudgery of endless washing and grotty diaper pails. Purists disparaged the invention, saying it would lead to a generation of young women who couldn't even manage their own washing, but Hermione was of the opinion that if something magical made your life easier, why not avail yourself of it? Of course, the Nappies were quite expensive, but she thought Ginny would definitely appreciate a set.

After searching through several stores – Madam Malkin did not look very pleased when asked as to whether her shop carried the new item -- Hermione managed to scoop up the second-to-last package at Septimus' Sundries, a shop just past Twilfit & Tatting's where one could acquire all sorts of interesting and sometimes even useful items. She had just emerged from the doorway of Septimus' Sundries when she almost collided with another young woman who had left the dress shop next door at the same moment.

Stepping back, Hermione said, "Excuse me -- " and then broke off as she realized the person she was addressing was none other than Pansy Parkinson.

_Pansy Malfoy_, Hermione corrected herself, recalling the announcement she had read in the _Daily Prophet_ about Pansy and Draco's Christmastime nuptials.

As she got a better glimpse of the other young woman, Hermione thought Pansy appeared to be anything but the glowing new bride. Although Pansy had grown into her looks, just as Hermione had – Harry's disparaging comments about pugs notwithstanding – her face was drawn and pale, shadows showing under her eyes despite a careful application of powder. The color on her lips looked stark and overdone in contrast.

As their eyes met, Hermione saw Pansy's nostrils flare in dislike. The erstwhile Slytherin pulled her fur-trimmed velvet robes a little bit more closely around herself, as if she had just approached a dirty vagrant instead of another young woman of similar station, although Hermione's robes of fine wool were nowhere near as sumptuous as Pansy's.

Hermione felt her own apologetic smile freeze on her lips, although she managed to say politely enough, "Hello, Pansy."

Pansy's eyes narrowed, but she replied, "Hermione," in tones chillier than the frosty January air and gave the smallest nod courtesy required. She clutched the parcel she carried more closely against her, then turned and stalked off down the street, the dragging train of her robes trailing through the slush that covered the uneven cobblestones.

_Well, I wonder what that was about_, Hermione thought, watching the other woman's departing figure until her mulberry-colored robes were swallowed up in the crowds. Certainly she hadn't expected Pansy to embrace her as a long-lost friend, but they were both adults now – one would have expected at least a modicum of courtesy.

_Unless she knows what Draco's been up to and doesn't want to be within ten yards of someone from the Improper Use of Magic office_, Hermione mused. _That would explain a lot._

It didn't explain Pansy's odd pallor, or the fact that she appeared as if she'd spent one too many sleepless nights. Hermione knew that look too well from seeing it on her own face not to recognize it in someone else. Strange for someone who had just married the person she'd pursued all through school, however. One would think Pansy should be glowing with the joy of being Mrs. Draco Malfoy.

_Perhaps they_ had _to get married_, Hermione thought suddenly. Ginny had looked awfully tired the first few months of her own pregnancy, drawn from bouts of morning sickness no potion seemed able to cure. She had perked up quickly enough after the third month, but for a while she had resembled the walking dead. If Pansy were pregnant, it could account for her drawn appearance. And perhaps things weren't all sunshine and flowers at Malfoy Manor because no one was overly thrilled with the situation.

Better that than some dark plot involving the entire Malfoy clan, Pansy included. Now if Hermione could only figure out what exactly was happening to all those Muggles…and why.


	10. Investigations

Happy Halloween! This is my last update before I start in on National Novel Writing Month. Between working full-time and trying to get out 50,000 words in one month, I'm not sure I'll be able to write a new chapter for this story. (But you never know…I might be able to squeeze one out, although I'm not making any promises.) Thank you to everyone for all your lovely reviews – I'm so glad you're enjoying this story!

* * *

Ten: Investigations

It was quite late when Hermione returned home that evening. She hadn't been able to slip away as she had hoped; after it became clear that Ginny was a little overwhelmed by the crowd of well-wishing relatives, the group left her and Harry alone and went over to the Leaky Cauldron for a celebratory round of butterbeer and firewhisky. Citing her responsibilities at the Ministry, Hermione had been able to get away with drinking only one butterbeer and the tiniest splash of firewhisky, but even so it was long past eleven by the time she finally was able to escape and Disapparate to the safety of Rosedell cottage.

That safety proved to be spurious, however. No sooner had she popped into existence within the warm confines of her living room than a voice spoke to her from the darkness.

"You do keep quite irregular hours, don't you?"

Hermione jumped, then spluttered, "_Lumos!_"

The blue light from her wand revealed the dark shape of Severus Snape as he sat on her couch. Crookshanks lay at the far end, staring at the Potions master with suspicious eyes but obviously unwilling to give up his comfortable spot on the sofa.

"You might want to consider some anti-Apparition spells," Snape went on. He rose from the couch and gave a casual flick of his fingers; around the room candles glowed into life. "This place is quite unprotected."

Relief that it was only Severus allayed some of Hermione's shock at seeing a stranger in her home, but she still retorted, "As my family and friends actually have manners, I didn't see the need."

Her barb didn't seem to have any effect; he merely tilted his head the slightest fraction and replied, "How trusting of you."

Since she knew she would get no apologies from him for committing such a breach of wizarding-world propriety, Hermione crossed her arms and asked instead, "What do you want?"

"Such a tone, after our tender exchange earlier?"

He was one to be rebuking her for such a thing, considering his own voice dripped with the same mockery she had heard a thousand times in Potions class. Had it really only been earlier that day when he had held her in his arms and kissed her in way which almost made her forget Ron? Now they might as well be student and teacher once more.

Part of her wished she really was still a schoolgirl – at least then she wouldn't care that a reply of "you started it" would be immature in the extreme. But just because he had fallen into old patterns didn't mean she should do the same. Summoning a forbearance she certainly didn't feel, Hermione replied, "I would think I might be forgiven a little testiness, considering I just Apparated into my house to find a strange man sitting in my living room."

Severus lifted his shoulders. "My Polyjuice supply has run low, I fear. I thought perhaps this was a better way of seeing you undetected."

Somehow she wasn't quite sure she believed him, but now was probably not the time to accuse him of falsehoods. "So why are you here?"

"Where were you?"

At the question she threw him a half-amused glance. "What, getting jealous already?"

His lip curled. "Hardly."

The reply stung, as no doubt he had meant it to. No matter what had passed between them a few hours earlier, it seemed clear Severus did not wish for her to become overly familiar – at least not yet. "I was at St. Mungo's. Ginny and Harry just had their first child."

Was it her imagination, or did something about him relax at her words? It was difficult to tell, for almost at once the usual scornful glint entered his eyes. "Just what this world needs – another Potter."

"It's impossible for you to simply be happy for someone, isn't it?" Hermione snapped. "That's all Harry ever wanted – a family of his own. Perhaps you can't understand, seeing as you weren't orphaned the way he was."

"I often wished I were," responded Severus, and for a second the mocking note left his voice, replacing by a sort of bone-deep bitterness. Then his mouth tightened once more. "Be sure to pass on my felicitations to the happy parents."

She knew he wasn't serious, so she merely lifted an eyebrow of her own and waited.

"You accused me of jealousy earlier," he said, and this time his tone was quiet and cold. "That is not what motivated my visit. I was worried about you."

He could not have surprised her more if he had said he had come here to propose marriage. Severus Snape was worried about her? She felt simultaneously warmed and annoyed. Warmed, because if he was concerned for her well-being, then he must have some sort of feelings for her beyond the merely physical, but she found herself annoyed as well, since his presence here seemed to indicate he didn't think she could take care of herself. Conflicting emotions momentarily tied her tongue, but after an awkward pause she said, "There's no need for worry. I think I've proven I can take care of myself."

"Indeed," said Severus, and it was obvious he had yet to be convinced of that fact. Since he had neatly caught her on his own property using a simple anti-Apparition charm, she supposed his opinion had some basis in truth.

"Very well," she said. "Why were you worried?"

"This Malfoy investigation," he replied. "I didn't want you to go off and do something foolish. As I told you before, there could be dark magic at the estate of which even I know nothing." As he spoke he stepped closer to her, and, weary as she was, Hermione couldn't help feeling a delicious tingle of anticipation at his nearness. Was he going to reach out to touch her?

But if that had been his intention, something stopped him short. He merely stood there, gazing down at her, and she wondered whether she should take a step of her own and close up the final distance that separated them. Somehow she couldn't quite find the courage to do so; his manner now was cool and formal, distinctly off-putting. Once again she found herself wondering if it had all been a bizarre dream born of her recent obsession with the Potions master.

"I assure you, I wasn't going to do anything foolish," she said, trying to keep her tone as coldly polite as his. "For one thing, I wasn't even going to approach Malfoy Manor. I though I should start by talking to some of the Muggles in the area and getting their side of things. Perhaps some in the wizarding world believe being Muggle-born is a disadvantage, but in this situation I believe it's actually to my benefit." Hermione uttered these last words with a somewhat defiant air, as if she expected Severus to contradict her or make some sort of deprecating remark about non-magical folk, but he only listened and then gave a small nod.

"Perhaps that could be useful," he said. "I assume the report you were given did not enumerate their injuries?"

Hermione shook her head. "No, it was really quite vague. But then, from what I could tell, many of the files I was given were lacking in detail. After all, they're just a jumping-off point – it's up to me as investigator to flesh them out and see if magic really has been improperly used."

Severus looked pensive, a pronounced line showing between his brows. "Would you have need of assistance in your task?"

At once Hermione opened her mouth to protest she could do very well on her own, but then she paused and gave him an unbelieving look. "You don't – that is, are you offering to _help_ me?"

"I will admit to some small curiosity regarding the matter."

Which had to be his oblique way of saying he did want to help her. Whether his request came from a true desire to offer assistance or merely because deep down he believed she couldn't manage the investigation on her own, Hermione couldn't be sure. The thought of working with him, though, sharing theories and brainstorming together, greatly appealed to her. His experience with dark magic of course far outstripped her own, and he would have insights into a side of the wizarding world she had never known. Perhaps this was her chance to bring him back to something resembling a normal life, to help reintegrate him into magical society.

"I think that would be splendid," Hermione said. "I'm sure we could get to the heart of the matter in no time."

He smiled thinly. "As to that, I wouldn't be so confident. But stranger things have happened, I suppose."

Despite his words, she thought surely he wouldn't have offered to help if he didn't think they had some chance of success. A sudden notion struck her, and she gave him a sidelong glance. "I assume you're going to have some sort of disguise? It wouldn't do for someone of your description to be seen in the vicinity of Malfoy Manor, after all."

"I believe a judicious use of Polyjuice Potion would be sufficient."

"The same Polyjuice Potion you said was in short supply?" Hermione inquired, her tone arch.

"The very same," he replied, and at last some of the warmth she longed for entered his eyes. "I came to the realization that I didn't want to do this while wearing another man's face." And he reached for her at last, drawing her close, as she lifted her face to his and felt the miracle of his mouth on hers once more.

_Better that than not at all_, Hermione thought, but she decided not to argue the point, especially since any protests would have broken the kiss. Much better to continue pressing against him, to hold him close and savor the warmth of his lips and the strength of his arms. He was an inch or so taller than Ron, and so she had to strain the slightest bit to reach Severus' mouth, but the difference in their heights only served to strengthen the delicious novelty of his embrace.

At length he released her with more gentleness than she might have expected. He pushed back the untidy curls from her face and said, "Tomorrow, then? I would suggest meeting at the Market Cross in Malmesbury, which is the town closest to to Malfoy Manor."

"Ten o'clock?" she asked. That would give her time to get into the office and inform Miles Cornish of her plans to be out in the field for the rest of the day.

"I'll find you," he said, and again he gave her another one of those tight-lipped smiles. "I doubt that you will recognize me."

Upon delivering this pronouncement, he stepped away from her and Disapparated. The _crack!_ of his departure sounded particularly loud, but it was most likely because of his extreme proximity. Usually people allowed a little more distance than that before casting the spell.

Even though he was gone, Severus' presence still seemed to fill the room. Hermione stood there for a moment, staring at the space he had just occupied, while Crookshanks looked up at her and let out an irritated meow. His opinion of the Potions master was all too clear.

"Well, no one asked you, Crookshanks," Hermione remarked, but she went over to her cat and scratched him behind the ears anyway to show she hadn't surrendered all her affections to someone else. He submitted to her ministrations with an air of irritated tolerance, but Hermione found herself abstracted, her thoughts already straying to Severus Snape. Was it possible she would get to spend a whole day with him? It still didn't seem quite real that he had volunteered to assist her with her investigations, but she wasn't about to ruin the situation by questioning it any further. Did it really matter whether it was concern for her, barely masked curiosity, or simple boredom with his solitary existence, as long as she was able to spend all that time in his company?

The answer – for the moment, anyway – seemed to be a resounding "no," so Hermione tried to push any lingering doubts aside and settle down for some much-needed sleep. She had the feeling that tomorrow was going to be a very long day.

* * *

At five minutes to ten, Hermione Apparated in a narrow lane situated between two pubs, a few hundred yards from the Market Cross in Malmesbury. She'd never been there before, but she'd made a side trip after leaving the Ministry to check out some guide books at a Muggle bookstore, and those had supplied clear enough photographs that she knew she'd be able to travel there safely enough.

The day was brisk; she'd put on a heavy brown wool coat over her neat tweed trousers and fitted cashmere cardigan. Her closet held a few Muggle staples such as these, clothing she kept aside for visits with her parents or the times she didn't feel like bothering with robes. Elegant as wizarding garb could be, it wasn't always the most practical thing in the world.

At that hour of the morning, the streets were lightly populated. Hermione spotted a few people going in and out of the shops on High Street, and she saw several cars parked in front of the various businesses located there – accountants, banks, veterinary offices. But overall it was very quiet and serene, a far cry from the endless bustle of London.

The Market Cross was impossible to miss; an octagonal building of dark-gray stone, it sat at the top of High Street, incongruous in its fifteenth-century splendor. Hermione crossed the street and took shelter inside, where several stone benches had been provided for that purpose. After she sat down, she scanned the market square and the streets which fed into it, but she saw no one headed in her direction. Surely Severus Snape hadn't intended to Apparate directly into the Market Cross?

She turned from her inspection of High Street to see a tall brown-haired man staring down at her with a quizzical expression on his face. From his camel's-hair coat to the shining brown oxfords on his feet, he was the height of ordinary – if she had passed him on the street in London, Hermione wouldn't have given him a second glance.

"Miss Granger," he said. His accent sounded very smooth, almost BBC in its clipped precision

"Severus?" she responded. Of course it had to be he – how else would this complete stranger have known who she was? But still she felt a little foolish addressing an unknown man with Severus Snape's name.

"Of course," he replied.

"So who is it this time?" Hermione inquired. "Don't tell me you got the sample for this disguise from anywhere near Yorkshire."

"As a matter of fact, I did," Severus said, with another one of his thin smiles. Of course, it looked rather different on this stranger's face. "He was a solicitor on holiday, come to see the Dales. He went to the barber for a trim – "

"—and the rest is history," Hermione finished. "So how many different potions do you have cooked up in case of an emergency?"

"Enough." Somewhere a church bell tolled the hour, and he added in brisk tones, "The Malfoy estate is about a mile outside of town. Shall we?"

Glad she had worn sturdy flat boots, Hermione rose and followed him out of the Market Cross, down Oxford Street to the western edge of town. Here the streets sloped downward toward the River Avon, which today looked like a ribbon of melted pewter between its muddy banks. In this region they seemed to have gotten more rain than snow, although Hermione spied a few slushy piles to the side of the road or mounded up against fence posts.

As they left the main road and headed off down a small side lane, barely more than a track through the fields, she lost her footing and stumbled in the gravel. Immediately she felt Severus' gloved hand clasp hers, steadying her as she crossed the troublesome patch of ground. No matter that the man whose fingers continued to grip hers was in appearance a stranger – Hermione only cared that it was still Severus underneath, Severus who had reached out to offer her assistance. She flashed him a quick smile in thanks and followed him along the track. When it branched once again, he paused, and let go of her. Although she missed the pressure of his hand around her fingers, she supposed she should be glad he had continued to hold onto her that long.

The trail to their left was small and overgrown, hardly noticeable, while the one on the right was much larger, big enough to allow vehicular traffic if the drivers were courteous about allowing one another to pass. In fact, the soft ground showed the unmistakable patterns of tire treads.

"If we continued that way -- " and Severus pointed down the narrow trail on the left, which wandered away to the southeast – "we would come to the gates of Malfoy Manor. As we are not Muggles, the charms in place should not work against us. However, I see little to be gained from going in that direction. I would suggest the right fork – there are several small farms and cottages in that area, if I recall correctly."

Once again Hermione felt a rush of gratitude. If Severus hadn't offered to assist her, it would have taken much longer to discover where best to direct her investigation. Although she had brought with her the list of supposed victims, she did not know the area at all, and probably would have wasted a good deal of time wandering around in an attempt to locate the people she needed to interview.

She risked a quick glance up at Severus. He continued to stare down the trail, his forehead creased in thought, his attention apparently not on her at all. The solicitor whose form he had borrowed was pleasant-looking in an unremarkable sort of way. Hermione could tell just from gazing at him that he was probably not the type to spend much time frowning, as Severus' scowl seemed to be creating new lines in his face.

"You've got plenty of Polyjuice with you?" she asked then. The last thing they needed was for him to regain his true appearance while they were in the middle of an interview.

In answer he tapped the breast pocket of his overcoat; Hermione thought she heard a faint metallic clank. "Enough to last all day, if necessary."

Of course he wouldn't make such an error in judgment – even now she wondered if he had actually wanted the potion to wear off that first time he had come to see her at Rosedell cottage. Or perhaps he hadn't thought it worth wasting more of the precious draught after he had gotten inside. After all, he wasn't trying to fool her, but merely keep outsiders from guessing who had come to visit the cottage.

"Good," she replied. "I thought we could say we were affiliated with the Rural Watch – that way people are less likely to wonder why we aren't in uniform. Since we're investigating 'accidents,' I don't want to be too conspicuous."

"Of course," Severus said, his tone dry. "Although if enough of the people you interview compare notes, you might find yourself arousing interest whether you like it or not."

"I understand that," Hermione said, feeling somewhat irked that he had immediately found such a weakness in her plan. "But I won't discover anything if I don't ask, will I?"

His only reply was a slightly mocking smile. To cover her irritation, Hermione flipped open the notebook she carried. Inside were the pertinent elements of the Malfoy file, including a list of the Muggles who had been treated at local hospitals for their injuries. Since most of the victims lived in isolated cottages and farms, tracking all of them down would take some time.

"Here," she said, noting the dilapidated mailbox that had sprung up on her right, placed next to a narrow lane. "Primrose Farm. That's the address of two of the victims – a brother and sister. Let's take a look."

"By all means," Severus replied, and strode past her toward the white outline of some sort of building, barely noticeable through the trees surrounding it. She hurried after him, glad once again she had put on her sturdy ankle boots. The recent mix of snow and rain had turned everything into a miserable, muddy slush, and the footing was treacherous.

The farmhouse turned out to be a two-story whitewashed structure, probably built in the early years of the nineteenth century. In addition to the house itself, the farm possessed a largish barn that appeared to be in better repair than the living quarters, a row of hen houses, and a ramshackle structure Hermione surmised might contain beehives. An ancient Range Rover was parked in front of the barn.

On a warm summer day, with the fields green and flowers blooming in the beds that bordered the walk, the property probably had a certain rustic charm. Today, with the sky an iron gray and mud splashed against the home's faded whitewash, it just looked dreary and somehow forlorn, as if it had been forgotten by its neighbors.

Despite herself, Hermione shivered. Severus glanced over his shoulder at her. "Cold feet?"

"Yes, my feet are cold," she said, even though she knew he wasn't talking about her actual physical well-being. "And so is the rest of me. So we'd might as well knock."

Without replying, he turned back to the front door and gave it two businesslike raps. A lengthy pause followed, one so protracted that Hermione wondered whether anyone was home, Range Rover or no. At last the door opened a spare two inches, and a narrow, suspicious face appeared in the gap. "Wotcher want?"

_Not a very promising beginning_, Hermione thought, but she summoned a cheery smile and said, "Good day, Mr. Morris. My name is Harriet Grady, and this is – er – Steven Simms. We're with the Rural Watch." Belatedly she realized she should have come up with an alias for Severus before this, but her hesitation didn't seem to have elicited much of a response. The pale blue eyes of the man watching her didn't blink, so she continued, "We'd like to ask you a few questions about your accident."

"Already gave a report at hospital," he replied, his tone heavily weighted with suspicion.

"Yes, I know, but there are just a few more things we need to discuss – and we'd like to speak with your sister as well." When Hermione had first seen the list of victims, she had mistakenly assumed the brother and sister in question were much younger and still lived with their parents, but she realized now that they were adults who must live here alone. Certainly the farmstead didn't have the air of a place where children dwelled.

Mr. Morris continued to stare at her for a moment, and then he gave a shrug and opened the door. "Haven't got much time. I was just about to go into town."

"This won't take very long," Hermione reassured him, then stepped inside, followed by a watchful Severus.

The interior of the farmhouse was as shabby as the exterior – mismatched furniture, scarred oak floors underfoot, faded chintz curtains at the windows. It smelled of damp and the ghosts of grease fires past. They went down a narrow corridor that emerged into a smallish parlor. In there it was marginally more cheerful – at least the radiator under the window let out some much-needed heat, and the furnishings weren't quite as worn. In a shabby velvet-covered armchair near the radiator sat a middle-aged woman who had to be Miss Morrison. Her left arm was covered in a cast and rested in a sling. She stared out the window at the bleak landscape and gave no indication that she'd noticed the strangers who had just entered her sitting room.

"Been like that ever since," remarked her brother, who did not bother to offer Hermione or Severus a seat. "Won't talk. At first it was sort of a blessing – she was one for talking, was Clara – but I'm starting to miss her chatter."

"Ever since?" Hermione asked.

"The accident," Mr. Morrison replied. "Not that it was."

"Not an accident?" Severus inquired, speaking for the first time.

Morrison gave him a wary look. No doubt the polished exterior of Severus' disguise hadn't won any points with the taciturn farmer. "That's what I said."

Hermione made sure she sounded respectfully polite before asking, "What makes you think so?"

The man shrugged. "Been over this before."

Resisting the impulse to grind her teeth, Hermione flipped open her notebook and took a quick look at the Malfoy file. The Morrisons were listed as victims who had been treated for their injuries and released from hospital, but further details were suspiciously lacking. "If you don't mind, Mr. Morrison – we'd really like to know."

"Said it was all in our heads. As if something in our heads could dislocate my shoulder or break Clara's arm."

"Of course," Hermione said, in placating tones. "I assure you, Mr. Morrison, we will take your input very seriously and will do everything we can to get to the bottom of the matter."

"Indeed," Severus put in, "without eyewitness accounts such as yours, we cannot possibly bring the culprits to justice."

Another one of those suspicious glances. "I doubt you will, no matter what I tell you."

"What makes you say that?" asked Hermione. While she hadn't thought conducting these interviews would be all smooth flying, she also didn't think it would be as difficult as getting Ron to write an astronomy paper on his own.

Morrison lifted his shoulders and made a grimace that might have been his attempt at at a wry smile. "Because I never seen someone send an invisible monster to prison before…."


	11. Suspicions

Well, I gave up on National Novel Writing Month early on this year. My heart just wasn't in it, what with starting a new job and all, so I decided to do the smart thing and get back to Snape and Hermione. See? You didn't have to wait until December after all….

* * *

Eleven: Suspicions

Hermione sent a shocked glance in Severus' direction before she recovered herself and forced her features into an expression she hoped resembled polite interest. "Erm…invisible monster?"

"Sounds crazy, I know." Mr. Morris gave a self-deprecating shrug. "But I know what I seen – or what I didn't see, that is."

Invisibility charms were easy enough to cast, of course, but even if the Malfoys had been traipsing around the Wiltshire countryside and accosting farmers while undetectable to the naked eye, such a charm wouldn't have changed their physical dimensions. Hermione pulled out a ballpoint pen she had borrowed from her mother during one of her visits home and had forgotten to return, then flipped open her notebook. "So what makes you think it was a monster?"

"'Cause the last time I checked, most people aren't nine or ten feet tall," Morris replied laconically. He glanced over at his sister, but she hadn't moved an inch that Hermione could tell. The older woman's gaze was fixed out somewhere in the muddy yard – or perhaps someplace far beyond it.

Severus asked, "And how is it you were able to ascertain the height of your assailant, if he – or she – was invisible?"

"No normal-sized person could have thrown us around like that, that's how." After delivering this statement, Mr. Morris's bushy gray-flecked eyebrows drew down in a scowl that rivaled one of Severus' in depth.

"Perhaps you might start at the beginning, Mr. Morris," said Hermione, feeling a little desperate. Something had happened to him and his sister, but what? What could have reduced her to such blank-eyed catatonia?

An answer swam up in Hermione's mind, one so dreadful she didn't want to contemplate that it might be true. It wasn't possible, though – the Ministry had been working diligently ever since Voldemort's defeat to contain the dementors. Indeed, she couldn't recall the last time she had even heard or read of a situation where anyone had encountered one of the erstwhile guards of Azkaban. Feeling rather sick, she listened as Mr. Morris began to recount his and his sister's encounter with their unseen foe.

"Was about three weeks ago, more or less," he said, shifting his weight. He had the look of someone whose knees or feet pained him, but Hermione got the distinct impression he wouldn't sit in their presence, as that might require him to offer them a seat as well. "Clara and me had gone off to check the fences on the back fields – neighbor's cows kept getting in." He glared at Snape and Hermione then, almost as if he thought they were somehow involved in the depredations of his neighbor's livestock. "Anyhow, we thought we heard something in this copse back there. Clara wanted to head for home, but if someone was trespassing I wanted to know about it. About that time something came out of the trees – I couldn't see anything, but I heard Clara scream, and I saw her go flying back as if someone had picked her up and thrown her. And when I went to help her, something reached down and grabbed me by the shoulder and pushed me back. Guess that's when my shoulder got dislocated. Didn't even notice at first, since it all happened so fast."

"But you distinctly remember it reaching down toward you?" Hermione asked. Mr. Morris was a tall, lanky man, probably several inches past six feet, and if something were reaching down for him, then it seemed the invisible attacker had to be a good deal taller than that.

"That's what I said, isn't it?" The farmer shrugged, then winced ever so slightly, as if the movement had pained him. Probably it had, if he'd suffered a dislocated shoulder less than a month previous.

"Was there anything else?" she inquired. It probably wasn't a good idea to be asking leading questions, but she didn't know what else to do. "Any sensation of cold?"

"Course it was cold, it was the middle of bloody December," Mr. Morris responded, giving her a scornful look.

"Colder than that," Hermione went on doggedly. She risked a quick glance at Severus, but he appeared abstracted, his attention for some reason fixed on Clara Morris, who had sat like a lump all this time. "Beyond freezing…and did you feel anything?"

"I felt myself getting thrown against a tree stump, that's what I felt," said Mr. Morris at once. His expression seemed to indicate that he thought she was the one who was crazy, not he.

_And if he thinks that now, if I start asking him whether he was overcome by feelings of darkness and depression, he'll pick up the phone and call the local loony bin_, Hermione reflected. _Whatever it was, it doesn't seem to have affected him the way a dementor usually does. But perhaps it was too busy administering the Kiss to his sister…._

Her thoughts broke off as the immobile form of Clara Morris twitched, sat bolt upright, and she suddenly yelped, "Get out!"

Her brother spun around, then asked in unbelieving tones, "_Clara?_"

The woman's eyes were wide and glaring, fixed for some reason on Severus, who looked surprised and concerned, as any normal man in such a situation might. Since his reaction was so typical, Hermione guessed it had to be a complete sham.

Not sure what she should do, Hermione watched, rooted in place, as Mr. Morris crossed over to his sister and knelt on the dirty wood floor next to her. "You're talking!"

"Course I am," she said in irritated tones. "Why wouldn't I be?"

For a second Mr. Morris just stared at her, his lantern jaw wagging in shock. "You haven't said anything for the past three weeks!"

"I haven't?" she asked, looking a bit surprised. "I don't remember."

"You remember nothing?" interposed Severus, taking a step toward her.

Her pale blue eyes widened. "It was you!" she exclaimed, and shrank back against the worn upholstery of her chair.

He managed to look wounded and mystified at the same time. "I beg your pardon?"

"In my mind. It was you – it was -- " Clara Morris's words broke off as she reached out and grasped her brother by the arm. "Get them out of here, Albert! Get them out!"

Immediately Morris rose to his feet and advanced on Severus, who hesitated, as if he meant to stand his ground. Hermione saw his fingers brush against the pocket of his overcoat, which no doubt contained his wand. But then he backed away and said, "I believe your sister may be somewhat disoriented -- "

"I'll 'disorient' you!" Mr. Morris barked. "Get out of my bloody house, you and that silly girl!" He thrust an accusing finger at Hermione, and she felt herself jump slightly, even though he hadn't actually touched her. "Get out now before I fetch my shotgun. Nobody much minds about shooting trespassers in these parts!"

Although Hermione had no doubt that both she and Severus could handily deal with Mr. Morris, shotgun or no, now seemed a good time to leave. "Of course, Mr. Morris," she said, trying to maintain a dignified tone, even though her instincts were telling her to get the hell out of there now. "I'm very sorry if our presence somehow upset your sister -- "

She broke off as Mr. Morris made a noise that might have been a derisive laugh. At the same time, Severus murmured, "If you please, Ms. Grady," then took her by the arm and led her away, smooth as if they had just completed the sort of polite, measured interview Hermione had imagined when she first came up with the idea of speaking with the Muggle victims near Malfoy Manor.

Moving in a purposeful but non-hasty way – as if he thought perhaps Mr. Morris could smell fear on them, the way a wild dog might – Severus took Hermione down the hallway and out into the bracing fresh air. It felt wonderful after the close, musty smell of the Morris residence. Still walking briskly, he kept her arm in his grasp until they reached the relative safety of the main road. At last he released her, although Hermione thought she wouldn't have minded if he'd retained his hold on her arm.

"Well, that could have gone better," she remarked.

"To the contrary. I thought it went very well."

Hermione stared up into the unfamiliar, unremarkable features that masked Severus' own. "Are you mad?"

Apparently unruffled, he raised an eyebrow. In the day's gray light, his eyes looked almost the same ashy hue as the skies above them. "Not at all. The mere fact that Clara Morrison was aroused from her catatonia proves they were not attacked by a dementor, which is what I had first feared."

"So did I," Hermione admitted. "But if it wasn't a dementor, then what?"

"We had better keep going," Severus said, and began to walk in what she guessed was a northwesterly direction, this time not bothering to see if she followed.

Which of course Hermione did, as she tried not to frown in annoyance. While she couldn't question the wisdom of getting as far away from Primrose Farm as possible, she did wish Severus could be a little more civil. Then again, expecting anything more than the barest politeness from Severus Snape was probably asking too much.

After they had put a good hundred yards between themselves and the narrow lane that led to the Morris property, Severus finally replied, "As to what attacked them, at this time I don't have enough information to speculate. At first Clara Morris's catatonia indicated to me that she must have suffered the Kiss. When I went into her mind, however, I saw that she still had reasonably cogent mental processes, but for some reason had decided to divorce herself from contact with the outside world."

His words explained Miss Morris's outburst. "You were practicing Legilimency on her?"

The cool look Severus gave Hermione seemed to imply her mental processes had been less than quick on this particular matter. "Of course. It seemed the easiest way to determine how much damage had been done to her mind."

"I thought Muggles couldn't sense magic."

"So they can't." He frowned slightly, then gave the barest shrug. "Perhaps it was simply because her thoughts had been so inwardly focused. She had suffered a great shock -- or at least what she perceived to be a great shock."

"Well, I suppose having one's arm broken by an invisible monster could do that to a person," Hermione replied. "Muggles call it 'post-traumatic stress disorder.'"

"Typical that they would have a name for something like that," Severus said, not bothering to hide his sneer. "At any rate, now we can most likely rule out dementors as the culprits."

"Which brings us back to the Malfoys," Hermione concluded. "I don't suppose you can recall whether or not they kept any invisible monsters in their cellars?"

"As you were more recently in the sub-basement of Malfoy Manor, I would think you would have better intelligence on such a subject than I."

His words elicited a shiver, and Hermione did not deign to reply. That had been too close a call; she could not approach her sojourn in the grasp of the Malfoys with anything approaching Severus' casual unconcern.

Once again the road came to a fork, and he paused to survey the battered signage placed off to one side. "I believe we should take the right fork. That will bring us a little closer to the northern edge of the Malfoy property." He stared off into the distance, the breeze ruffling the edges of his fashionably razor-cut hair. "Let me see the list of names you have there."

Hermione reached inside her notebook and drew out the piece of parchment he'd requested. He took it from her, then inspected its contents. "I'd say the Hamiltons. Their address is on this road."

For some reason Hermione once again felt a flash of irritation, one which had no real basis in anything Severus had said or done. Perhaps it was merely that he had been so completely businesslike, so thoroughly matter-of-fact, the entire time they had been together. Yes, they had a mission to carry out and a goal to achieve, but did that mean he had to barely meet her eyes, or avoid touching her in any way save that which was entirely professional?

She had thought she would enjoy spending the day with him, but she found herself wishing suddenly that she had come out here on her own. True, the meeting with the Morrises could have been even more disastrous without Severus at her side. _Or not_, she thought,_considering it was his meddling with Legilimency that set Clara Morris off in the first place._ Whatever the case, Hermione wasn't sure how much longer she could stand to pretend they were merely colleagues, that they hadn't shared kisses which had practically seared the memory of every other kiss she'd ever had right out of her mind.

"Severus," she inquired in desperate tones, "how long is it until this batch of Polyjuice Potion wears off?"

He gave her a curious look. "Approximately five minutes. I had planned to renew the dose as we made our way over to the Hamilton residence."

"Well, don't," she said.

"I beg your pardon?"

Having to say these things to a stranger's countenance didn't make the situation any easier, but Hermione somehow found the nerve to reply, "Because you told me the other day that you wouldn't kiss me while you were wearing another man's face, and I'm not sure I can go the rest of the day without at least one to tide me over." Once the words were out of her mouth she felt a complete fool, but it was too late to take them back.

To her surprise, he did not sneer at her or offer a cutting remark. Instead, he regarded her with calm gray eyes for a moment, then said, "Is that it? I suppose five minutes won't make much of a difference one way or another." And he leaned up against the signpost and crossed his arms after giving a casual and wholly superfluous glance at the expensive watch strapped to his wrist.

Feeling yet another one of those world-upended sensations, Hermione could only stare back at him in uncomfortable silence. At length she said, "I'd thought you might laugh at me."

His expression did not change. "For what?" he asked. "Wanting the same thing I did?"

The doubts she had been experiencing, the nagging worry that Severus had simply lost control a few times and was now doing his best to pretend nothing had happened between them, disappeared as suddenly as the first stone upon which she'd cast an Invisibility Charm. Of course she wanted to kiss him…but more importantly, he wanted to kiss her back.

"Yes," Hermione said, and she could hear the joy bubbling up in her own voice, bright as sunlight on a clear stream. "Exactly that."

"Well, then," was his only reply, but at the same time his features began to shift, transmuted themselves into Severus Snape's oversized nose and piercing black eyes, his curtains of uneven black hair -- _he must trim it himself_, Hermione thought dazedly -- and thin, sensual mouth.

She would never recall which of them moved first. Not that it mattered. What mattered was the feel of his arms around her, the touch of his lips against hers, the taste of him, the feeling that while she was within his arms nothing else in the world could harm her. Never mind that they stood embracing like a pair of hormone-driven sixth years, clinging to one another in plain sight of whatever Muggle might drive along that public road. But no one came, and for the moment they had the wintry afternoon to themselves.

At last they broke apart, and with no further comment Severus reached into his breast pocket and drew out a small flask. He sipped at its contents, and once again Hermione saw the pleasant-faced Londoner of his disguise staring back at her. This time it didn't seem to matter so much. She knew it was still the man she loved underneath.

_Loved?_ she thought, the idea hitting her with a jolt. It was one thing to play at an attraction, to allow herself to think this whole dalliance with Severus was merely some sort of odd physical attraction that would play itself out in time. But to love him? How could she allow herself to love another, when Ron had been in the grave for barely six months?

But she had never been one to fall into idle dalliances, looking for some idle snogging before moving on to the next willing companion. Even with Viktor she had felt a true connection, although her relationship with him had been partly grounded in a flattered astonishment that someone as celebrated as Viktor Krum would brush aside his adoring fans -- many of whom were prettier than she, to be brutally honest -- in order to pursue plain-faced, bushy-haired Hermione Granger. And she had loved Ron, with the fierce affection of a friend who knew his every quality and fault and cared for him all the more because of each one of them. They had seemed to be two halves to one whole, and she had honestly thought she could never be happy with someone else.

_Just because you think you love Severus doesn't necessarily mean you can be happy with him_, she reflected, while she trudged along through the slushy mud behind him. Almost as soon as he had swallowed the Polyjuice Potion, he had resumed their trek to the Hamilton farm.

Perhaps she couldn't be happy with him, but she also couldn't imagine not being around him. Surely there had to be some way to make this all work out, some way to bring him back to the wizarding world while reconciling her friends to the idea that she had somehow transferred her affections to their dour-faced erstwhile Potions master.

_And after that I'll be voted __Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards__, right before I'm awarded the Nobel Peace Prize_, Hermione thought miserably. At the moment, she couldn't think how she would ever convince Harry that her relationship with Severus Snape was anything but an abomination. And if she couldn't convince him, what then? Would she be forced to choose between the man who had somehow managed to capture her heart and the friends she loved more than family?

_It will never come to that_, she told herself. _I'll make sure it doesn't._

She just wished she could be more certain of that fact.

* * *

As it turned out, the Hamiltons had very little to offer. Yes, they had suffered injuries -- a sprained wrist and a concussion, to the husband and wife, respectively -- but they had never seen their attacker. Since it had been coming on dusk when the encounter occurred, their only impression had been of someone of above-average height and weight, someone who found it easy to toss them aside like rag dolls.

"Didn't take anything, either," Mrs. Hamilton offered. "I'd been selling my knitting at a craft fair that morning, and I had more than a hundred pounds in my purse, but it was all still there. Very odd."

Yes, very odd indeed, Hermione was forced to agree. That comment was echoed by the three other victims they interviewed, all of whose stories offered corroborating evidence that someone or something of unusual size and strength had attacked them -- and all of them couldn't manage to offer any more evidence than that.

Feeling more than a little discouraged, she had returned to London with Severus, who had just taken a swig of the Polyjuice Potion mere moments before their last interview and who seemed surprisingly amenable to spending some time with her there before returning to Yorkshire.

"Of course, there is always the chance we may encounter someone who knows this man," Severus told her, with an off-hand gesture toward his face, "but in a city of around seven million, the odds are rather against it."

Which they were, of course. They ate their supper in a little out-of-the-way restaurant in the East End, a place the polished solicitor was unlikely to have visited but one which Hermione had discovered while attending the university and had recommended once to George, who had developed quite a taste for slumming in Muggle venues, much to his mother's dismay. What Severus thought of the place Hermione couldn't be certain, but he had tucked into his mushroom-topped steak with a healthy appetite, and at least didn't sneer at the Bordeaux she had chosen.

All in all, it had been a rather successful evening, although she wished the interviews that had preceded it had borne a little more useful fruit. After dinner Severus had bidden her a formal good night and left without a kiss -- his dose of the Potion hadn't been due to wear off for some time -- and she had gone home with her mind in a tumult, not the least because the dinner she and Severus had just shared could have counted as something of a first date. Never mind that she'd had to pay for the whole thing, as of course the Potions master hadn't thought to carry Muggle money with him. They had still spent time together out in public, even though he'd been disguised. He'd almost seemed to enjoy himself, although he'd made a few cutting remarks about the slowness of the service and the regrettable lack of house-elf servants.

Enough of an afterglow carried her into work the next morning that she put together her report for Miles Cornish in good cheer. There was nothing concrete to tell him, but at least she had gathered new evidence, and that was always a good thing. Perhaps she would have to do some more research, as her Defense Against the Dark Arts schooling had been regrettably spotty, but perhaps there was some Dark spell or creature out there she had simply overlooked and which could provide a simple explanation. She quite sincerely hoped it would end up having nothing to do with the Malfoys except an accident of geography. After all, in their own way the Malfoys had seen as much pain and torment as many other wizarding families.

She worked away, her quill scratching at her parchment as one part of her mind wondered, as it often did in the middle of such tasks, why it was considered so sacrilegious to use a computer for such mundane work. Of course modern devices couldn't function at Hogwarts, but there was no such proscription at the Ministry. Really, this blind adherence to tradition had already gotten the wizarding world into trouble on more than one occasion. You'd really think they'd learn --

"Are you seeing someone?" came Harry's voice in ominous tones, and Hermione looked up with a start, blobbing ink across several lines of her report.

"What?" she asked in innocent tones, although she felt her pulse start to race and an uncomfortable knot begin to form in her midsection.

"George says he saw you coming out a restaurant in the East End with some Muggle last night," Harry replied, crossing his arms and glaring down at her. In his Auror's robes, he looked distinctly forbidding and very unHarry-like.

"Oh, that," Hermione said, in what she hoped were tones of careless unconcern.

"Yes, _that_."

_Damn it_, she thought. _In all the time Severus and I were worrying about whether we'd run into someone who would recognize the man whose shape he'd taken, neither one of us thought to worry if someone might recognize_ me.

"It's not what you think," Hermione went on, and that was nothing more than the truth. She was fairly certain Harry wasn't thinking she had been running around London with a disguised Severus Snape. "He's -- he's a friend of my parents."

"Oh, really?"

Sometimes Harry could take the protective older brother role a little too far, especially when one considered that she was actually the elder by almost a year. "He's a solicitor. Mum wanted him to tell me about a trust he'd been setting up for them."

The glint in Harry's green eyes told her how much he believed that line.

"All right," she said desperately. "It was sort of a fix-up, but so what? Nothing came of it!" And that was the truth as well, since Severus refused to kiss her when not wearing his true form.

"Your mum was trying to fix you up with a Muggle?" Harry demanded. "With Ron gone only six months?"

"So what if she had?" Hermione retorted. "She meant well. I didn't think I was ready, but what was I to do? Do you want me to be alone forever?"

"It's only been six months!"

"And in a year I suppose you'll tell me it's just been a year, and then just two, and then what? Will it ever be enough, Harry?" With an effort Hermione sought to lower her tone, realizing for the first time that the door to her office still stood open. "What was I supposed to do? Throw myself on top of Ron's coffin and have done with it?"

Harry's face had gone white with fury, but he, too, shot a quick glance at the open door and replied, in quietly venomous tones, "Don't be ridiculous. That's not what I was saying."

_Oh, but it was_, she thought, and to her surprise the realization was tinged with more sadness than anger. _If I move on, then it's just one more bit of proof that Ron's really gone. While it's still just me you can pretend things haven't changed, can't you?_

When she spoke, it was with some of that sorrow underlying her words. "I wouldn't worry about it, Harry. I'm not ready to settle down with a Muggle. Nothing happened. We had dinner. He went home. That's all."

He watched her steadily, as if he sought to practice some of Severus Snape's Legilimency on her. But he'd never been trained in that skill, so Hermione didn't think he'd be able to read the truth in her mind. Thank God for that.

Finally he spoke. "I know it's been hard. I'd just hate to see you making a mistake simply because you don't want to be alone."

_Too late for that_, she thought. Then again, Severus wasn't a mistake. Or was he? What sort of future could they ever have together?

"No worries, Harry. He was a very nice man. But I'm not ready for anything -- especially with a Muggle." She hated to lie to Harry, her oldest friend in the world, the one who had gone to hell and back with her, and probably even a little farther than that. But she also knew that now was certainly not the time to confess her relationship with Severus. Whether there would ever be such a time was questionable at best.

"All right," Harry said, but he still didn't look convinced. No, he would worry and pick at the problem until Ginny told him to stop being such a blockhead. And even then he'd never really let it go. No, Hermione had the uncomfortable thought that he'd probably envisioned a solitary future for her, one in which she could be "Aunt Hermione" and lavish on her honorary nephews and nieces all the love she might have given to Ron and her own children in an alternate reality that would never be. The realization Hermione would someday move on -- even if that day hadn't yet come -- had to hurt.

"So how is Ginny?" Hermione asked, indicating she thought that particular topic was closed. "And James?"

"Oh, fine," Harry replied, perking up noticeably at the mention of his wife and son, even if Hermione had mentioned them in order to change the subject. "James has already gained a pound. And Ginny wanted me to thank you particularly for the Nappies you got her -- they're sold out all over town, and they've helped her ever so much."

The conversation that followed involved mostly a paean to James Sirius's many virtues, but Hermione found she didn't mind so much. Anything to keep Harry from asking too many questions.

Anything to postpone the evil day when she would have to reveal who the true object of her affections was….


	12. Returns of the Day

I'm trying to be faster about updating – sometimes I'm in the groove, and sometimes I'm not. I went through a sort of bad patch earlier this month, but I think I'm getting my rhythm back. Thank you to everyone for all your wonderful reviews!

* * *

Twelve: Returns of the Day

The confrontation with Harry had left Hermione more than a little shaken, and once or twice during the days that followed she found herself to be the recipient of curious, furtive stares from her coworkers. Apparently the argument had been overheard, but it was just as obvious that none of her office mates felt they knew her well enough to mention anything about it to her.

With a mental sigh, Hermione tried to tell herself that everyone had difficulties in their personal life from time to time, and no doubt sooner or later she'd hear more than she ever wanted to regarding her coworkers' affairs, financial troubles, spats with in-laws, and all the other mundanities from which even wizards weren't exempt. In the meantime, she buried herself in research, going through the Department of Magical Law Enforcement's surprisingly well-stocked library in an attempt to determine who – or what – was attacking the Muggles near Malfoy Manor.

But the only magical animals who could make themselves invisible, such as the Tebo and the Demiguise, were peaceful creatures, certainly not up to attacking Muggles. And they were also much smaller than the assailant described by the victims. The attacker was bigger than a man, but apparently smaller than any giant she had heard of. Perhaps the Malfoys had hired some sort of pituitary giant to don an Invisibility cloak and wander the borders of their property whilst fending off anyone who dared to get too close, but Hermione found that difficult to believe.

Although feeling more than a little frustrated, she continued to organize her findings – such as they were – into a tidy report she could submit to Miles Cornish to prove she hadn't been twiddling her thumbs the entire time. And of course the Malfoy case wasn't the only one to occupy her days, even if it did happen to be the most perplexing. No, most of the other files involved people casting Atmospheric Charms without a permit when they wanted the weather to be particularly fine for a special event, irritated wives who had cast a few too many Confundus Charms on wandering husbands, or the usual run-of-the-mill instances of underage magic users casting spells outside the walls of Hogwarts. She felt a touch of pity for some of these transgressors, knowing that on occasion there were extenuating circumstances involved. But the rules were strict, and although these underage experimenters wouldn't be threatened with expulsion from Hogwarts as Harry had, probably the perpetrators' parents would get hit with a hefty fine, one that some of them no doubt could ill afford.

In a way it was a relief to work on these other cases, to reassure herself that for the most part the wizarding world ran smoothly along as it always had. At the end of the day on Tuesday Hermione deposited her preliminary report on Miles Cornish's desk, although he was nowhere to be seen. Probably taken off early; she had already noticed she was usually the last one to leave in her department. That was fine -- the quiet hours at the tail end of the afternoon offered her some extra time to make further progress, and she found it easier to plow through the piles of paperwork on her desk without the low-level hum of her coworkers' conversations always underscoring the task.

Hermione had wanted to visit Severus, but her encounter with Harry worried her more than she cared to admit. Were the Weasleys keeping closer tabs on her than she had thought, or was it just rotten coincidence George had been in the vicinity when she and Severus had gone to that restaurant in the East End? She had no way of knowing for sure, and of course she could never ask her brother-in-law outright if he had charmed her pen to be a tracking device or whether Molly employed some sort of snoop spell to keep an eye on all her children and at some point had added Hermione to the lot. No, better to be circumspect for a time and see what happened next.

That caution didn't prevent her from disguising Crookshanks as an owl once more so that he could fly a note to Severus. The missive was brief, just to let him know she was pursuing her research from London and would make arrangements to see him in the near future. It seemed horribly brusque and businesslike, but she didn't know exactly how to address him – surely Severus wouldn't appreciate the sort of gushy, lovey-dovey language most new couples seemed to employ in their written communications. And were they even a couple at all? Did a few kisses and even fewer encounters signify coupledom?

Hermione couldn't say, so she tried to tell herself that keeping things deliberately casual was a good idea. After all, she couldn't quite imagine Severus being the type who wanted the clinging-vine sort of woman. Besides, she did have quite a few things to keep her busy here in London. She would see him Friday night. That should work quite nicely.

Rational explanations all, but as the week wore on she had an increasingly difficult time staying focused on her work. It didn't help that Severus had sent an equally brusque reply to her note, saying he had several new potions he was working on and research of his own to do, and that her absence would suit him just fine.

_Oh, really?_ Hermione thought with some irritation, recalling his communiqué as she moved another file to the "complete" stack on her desk. By that point it was Thursday morning, and she had begun to have some sympathy for Muggle addictions. Certainly her whole body seemed to ache with desire for him, for the sound of his voice, the touch of his hand on hers, the feel of his lips on her mouth. Had she ever felt this overwhelming need for Ron? Difficult to say – after they had officially become a couple, she and Ron had spent only a small time apart. But little as she wanted to admit it to herself, Hermione had to say that no, she hadn't felt quite this way even the few times she and Ron had been separated.

And really, who was this man who appeared to have claimed her heart? Hermione realized she knew so very little about him after all, save a few details of his miserable childhood and youth, the fact that he'd loved Lily Potter with an unhappy, all-encompassing love, and that he'd sacrificed most of his adult life to the defeat of the Dark Lord. Somehow it just didn't seem enough. Harry probably knew a little more, although he was the last person she could possibly ask. Most of the other people who had worked with Severus were either dead or still at Hogwarts. Perhaps Minerva McGonagall could offer some insights, but how could Hermione ever explain her sudden interest in a disliked professor who had – to the world, at least – perished some five years earlier?

But she worked for the Ministry, and there had to be some records on file here that would give her at least a little information. That seemed logical enough, but logic didn't always apply at the Ministry of Magic. There was no standard records department, not even something that corresponded to the Muggle National Health Service which would provide a central clearinghouse for information. The best thing she could do was find stacks of old O.W.L.S. and N.E.W.T.S. in a back office in the Wizarding Examination Authority; through some dusty digging, she actually located files from Severus' period at Hogwarts.

With shaking hands, she flipped through the grimy parchment until she found one signed boldly, "Severus Snape, 9/1/60." That couldn't have been the date of the examination, of course – the notation had to indicate his birth date.

January ninth? But that was – tomorrow, she realized. His birthday, and he had never said one word to her about it.

_Well_, the reasonable part of her mind tried to tell her, _what did you expect him to do? Announce it to you so you could bring him a cake? He's not exactly the sort to want or need that sort of attention._

Good thing she had already planned to visit Yorkshire tomorrow evening, although Hermione hadn't had anything in mind when she made those plans besides seizing an opportunity to see Severus again. She had some notes she wanted to share with him, but somehow she doubted he would be able to provide any more insight into the mystery of Malfoy Manor without making another trip to Wiltshire. The thought of such a trek did not fill her with any sort of hope. The last journey hadn't turned up much of anything -- why would getting the same answers from a different batch of victims help? To all intents and purposes, she had hit a dead end.

Although Hermione knew better than to make a fuss over Severus' birthday, she thought a small gesture shouldn't upset him too much – perhaps she could find him a useful book at Flourish & Blotts, or some rare potion ingredients at the Apothecary. Yes, that should do very nicely. And it would help to fill some of her after-work time.

The previous evening she had gone to visit Harry and Ginny and see the baby, even though she had rather dreaded facing Harry so soon after their quarrel . He'd still seemed somewhat annoyed with her, but after Hermione had gushed sufficiently over young James Sirius, the proud father appeared mostly mollified. Even so, the hour she had spent at number 12, Grimmauld Place had felt more than a little uncomfortable, and she had been glad to escape home to the quiet of Rosedell.

On Thursday evening, instead of working late as was her usual habit, Hermione set out from the Ministry to Diagon Alley. A good crowd of Ministry folk seemed headed that way as well, although they took care to travel by Apparition, Floo Powder, and other means not easily noticed by Muggles. Hermione herself Floo'd over, using the fireplace in Miles Cornish's office. She recognized several of her coworkers in the crowd near the front door of the Leaky Cauldron, but she merely smiled and shook her head in response to their request that she join them for a drink.

Flourish & Blotts was much less crowded. Hermione had always loved the shop, the scent of parchment and fine hides, the promise of unexplored knowledge that lay behind every new title. But although she found several volumes she would have liked to add to her own collection, she saw nothing that seemed uniquely Severus, nothing that would suit his needs. Very likely he already owned or had memorized most of the potions titles the shop carried.

It seemed she would just have to go over to the Apothecary's and hope its wares would offer something suitable. She murmured a thank-you to the proprietor at Flourish & Blotts as she exited the book shop and headed across Diagon Alley in pursuit of potions supplies.

The Apothecary's was a narrow little venue, its shelves reaching to the ceiling and stocked with every ingredient and component Hermione had ever heard of, and several more she had not. As she entered, it seemed the shop was deserted, but then she heard the sound of voices emanating from the back of the space, possibly from the storeroom area she knew backed up to the counter.

"You haven't got any in?" asked a female voice that sounded familiar, although Hermione couldn't quite place whose it was. "But you said you were expecting a shipment any day!"

A man replied, "I said I _hoped_ to have some soon. It is an exceedingly rare ingredient. One of my suppliers thought he'd had a sighting, but it apparently came to naught. Believe me, I am doing everything in my power to procure it for you."

"Apparently not," the woman snapped, "as this is the third time I've come here, to no avail. Perhaps I haven't sufficiently impressed you with the gravity of the situation?"

"Of course you have, Mrs. Malfoy. But all the urgency in the world can't make such a thing appear out of thin air!"

_Mrs. Malfoy_. Of course. The unseen woman was Pansy. Since Hermione had spent very little time in company with Pansy since their schoolgirl days, it was no wonder she hadn't been able to immediately place Pansy's voice. But what was it that she needed so urgently? Hermione sidled a little closer, careful to keep her back to the walkway so that her face wasn't easily visible.

"Be that as it may," Pansy said, and even without seeing her Hermione could sense the frustration and urgency she must be feeling. Both emotions were clearly reflected in her voice. "You are not the only supplier in England. I've already told you we're prepared to pay handsomely -- what other incentive do you need?"

"It is not a question of incentive, Mrs. Malfoy," the proprietor of the shop responded. "The phoenix is an exceedingly rare creature, and even when one is found, it does not necessarily weep on command."

So Pansy needed phoenix tears? That would imply someone close to her had suffered some sort of grievous wound or illness. Could something have happened to Draco? Possible, but since it appeared Pansy had been inquiring after the tears for some time, whatever it was couldn't be immediately life-threatening. That didn't explain the desperation which underlay Pansy's usual disdainful tone, however. Despite her dislike for the Slytherin girl, Hermione couldn't help but feel a wave of pity for her. Whatever the reason for her requiring the tears, it must be dire.

"It would weep, if it knew why I needed it," Pansy said, and this time her voice almost broke. An awkward pause followed. Then she added, "You can't know what your delays are costing us."

With that parting shot, the interview seemed to come to an end; Hermione barely had time to cast a quick Disillusionment spell before Pansy swept past, a blur of gray velvet and fox trim. Whatever was going on at Malfoy Manor, it certainly hadn't hindered her sartorial endeavors.

Hermione allowed a good minute to pass before she whispered, "_Finite incantatem!_" and dispelled the Disillusionment charm. Pansy had been in such a rush that it was likely she might not have even noticed Hermione standing there, appearing to study the shelves with rapt attention, but of course it was better not to take that chance.

The shopkeeper came out a few seconds after Hermione had reappeared. His hound-dog face appeared troubled, but he gave Hermione a professional smile and inquired if she was looking for something in particular.

She wasn't, of course, but when she informed him she had a dear friend who dabbled in potions and who would very much appreciate a rare ingredient or two, the proprietor's face lit up, and he began to make recommendations, pulling jars off the shelves and shoving them into her arms. His enthusiasm was a little overwhelming; before Hermione could stop to figure out exactly what had happened, she had walked out of the shop carrying bags bulging with Ashwinder eggs, Jobberknoll feathers, and a pair of unicorn horns. Her wallet was well over a hundred Galleons lighter after this little adventure, but at least she thought Severus would appreciate the items, seeing as he probably would have a difficult time procuring such magical components himself.

Wrapping up her purchases and preparing them for her visit to Yorkshire occupied Hermione for a time, but all the while she kept going over that odd exchange between Pansy Malfoy and the shopkeeper at the Apothecary's. It was true that phoenix tears could cure an astonishing number of ailments, including many that wouldn't respond to more traditional treatments. Pansy had not mentioned any particulars. Were the tears intended for Draco…or perhaps Lucius? Hermione recalled that Harry had told her Lucius Malfoy hadn't been seen in London for almost a year. At the time Hermione had thought the elder Malfoy's self-imposed seclusion had been a direct result of the ostracism his family must have faced after the end of the War, but possibly it was more than that. Perhaps he had fallen ill, and pride or reticence had prevented him from seeking out the Healers at St. Mungo's.

But what any of this had to do with the wounded Muggles near Malfoy Manor, Hermione couldn't begin to guess. Somehow she had the uneasy feeling the two disparate circumstances were related, but in what way, she had no idea. Nothing in any of her research or her studies had mentioned any sort of illness that had invisibility as one of its symptoms, and even if one did, it still wouldn't explain the size and ferocity of the attacker the Muggle victims had described. It was pure luck none of them had been killed.

…or was it? If some awful creature really was roaming the borders of the Malfoy estate, what had kept it from murdering the nonmagical folk it encountered instead of merely wounding them and driving them off?

As with so many other things lately, to that question Hermione had no answer. It seemed this case was a hydra -- answering one question only led to three or four more popping up in its place. She was tired, frustrated, and no closer to a solution than she had been when she started out. Worse than that, she felt stupid, as if she had somehow missed a vital clue, the one thing which would unravel the whole complicated mess. But try as she might, she couldn't seem to come up with anything resembling a coherent explanation.

At least she would get to see Severus the next day. At the moment, Hermione wasn't sure what she looked forward to more -- being with him, or having the chance to tell him of this latest development. Perhaps he would be able to see something she had overlooked; after all, many times all a problem required was a pair of fresh eyes to take a closer look. At any rate, there was something oddly reassuring about Severus' presence, about his perennial aura of unruffled irony. No doubt most people would find his affect quite off-putting, but Hermione had the distinct impression that as long as Severus Snape continued to face a situation with his well-known sarcasm and cool air intact, then all was well with the world.

At the very least, once she was in Yorkshire she would be far away from here, far from these seemingly unsolvable mysteries…and far from the nagging worry that she wouldn't be able to keep her own secrets for much longer.

* * *

Severus appeared nonplussed when she knocked on his door at precisely six o'clock the next evening; his black stare fastened itself on the parcels she carried, and one eyebrow lifted slightly. 

The cheery "Happy Birthday" Hermione had meant to utter died on her lips. Instead she mumbled, "Erm…these are for you," and thrust the packages into his hands.

He caught them neatly, and stepped out of the way so she could come inside, away from the cold night air. Snow was coming; Hermione could practically smell the unshed weight of it as the clouds dropped lower. If nothing else, she was glad to be inside the fire-lit warmth of the cottage.

"And to what do I owe this unexpected bounty?" Severus inquired, as he set the gifts down on the dining room table.

"It's your birthday, isn't it?" she asked, not knowing what else to say.

A quick unreadable look from under the level black brows. "So it is, but it's not a date I've felt any reason to celebrate for some time."

"Well, I do," Hermione returned. She should have known he'd want to ignore his birthday the way he pointedly ignored almost every other nicety of normal human society. "Besides, I thought you might have a difficult time getting some of those things up here. You don't have to think of them as birthday presents if you don't want to."

In silence he unwrapped the parcels one by one, carefully inspecting the contents of each box before he moved on to the next. When he was done, he set the items side by side on the dining room table and surveyed them for a moment. At last he turned to Hermione, a faint deepening of the line between his brows seeming to indicate some inner disquiet. "These must have cost you a great deal of money."

What could she say to such a statement? The truth, she supposed. Severus deserved that much from her. "What does it matter?" she asked. "They're for you."

At her reply he appeared almost taken aback, as if he had never considered she might care enough about him that spending large amounts of money for his benefit wouldn't trouble her at all.

Hermione watched as he reached out to touch one of the unicorn horns, his long, ink-stained fingers caressing the smooth surface. Once again she felt a rush of desire for him, for those elegant hands to be touching her own face. The violence of her own feelings continued to startle her. She had never before thought of herself as an overly passionate person, although she'd come to enjoy the intimacy she shared with Ron, despite their awkward and fumbling first attempts.

"Severus," she said quietly. "What are we doing?"

Somehow he seemed to understand she was not speaking of their quibbling over his birthday presents. He raised somber dark eyes to hers, eyes that for once were not filled with mockery or disdain. "I'm not sure," he said at last. To her surprise, he reached out and took her hand in his, then led her over to the sofa, where the warmth of the fire at last began to penetrate her chilled fingers and toes.

Hermione sat next to him, uncertain as to what might come next. He stared into the dancing flames in the hearth for a long, uneasy moment, as the reflected glow from the fire lent some warmth to his sallow skin and sent odd reddish lights dancing through the heavy unkempt hair surrounding his face.

"I am forty-four years old, Hermione," Severus said. "And you are, what – twenty-three?"

"Twenty-four," she replied, not sure she liked where this was leading. "I was older than most in my year, since my birthday falls in the middle of September."

"Twenty years difference, then." He smiled, a bitter, mocking smile that was little more than a baring of teeth. "Do you know what I was doing the month you were born?"

"No."

"I was a follower of Voldemort. Although I was not quite as bloodthirsty as most of my compatriots at the time, still I was a party to dreadful deeds, any one of which should have earned me a lifetime in Azkaban."

Aching for him, for the self-disgust and hatred in his face and his voice, Hermione protested, "But Professor Dumbledore forgave you for all that! And all those years you worked against the Dark Lord – all the sacrifices you made – "

"Do not speak to me of sacrifices, Hermione, when I know everything I have done still is not enough." His black eyes seemed to glitter in the firelight. "Even now, when I should be spending my days alone in exile, I've allowed you to come into my life."

"I wouldn't exactly call it 'allowing,'" she commented with a rueful smile. "As I recall, you did just about everything except place me in a Vanishing Cabinet to get rid of me."

The taut lines of his mouth did not relax even the slightest amount. "Be that as it may, I still should have made more of an effort to keep you away. I could have disappeared again. But I did not. I was weak."

Did he really have such a mistaken impression of himself? "Weak? Severus, you're probably the strongest person I know." Hermione reached out and wrapped her hands around his; he did not protest, but neither did he return the caress. "You've been through ordeals that would have killed lesser men. How can you possibly think of yourself as weak?"

"How can I not, with you sitting here beside me?" His hands were so still beneath hers they might have been carved from stone.

"That's not weakness – that's just common sense." She shifted her weight slightly so she was turned to face him. His profile looked sharp and uncompromising as the mountain crags she had seen in Scotland. "I can be dreadfully stubborn, you know."

For the first time she saw a small twitch at the corner of his mouth. "I hadn't noticed."

It wasn't much, but the return of even the barest hint of irony to his voice heartened her. Anything was better than the self-loathing that had colored his earlier comments.

"However," he continued, "even leaving my past transgressions aside, one could argue that our relationship is quite…inappropriate."

"Why?" Hermione asked frankly. "Because you were once my professor? If we were still student and teacher, then yes, of course all this would be dreadfully improper. As it is, since I'm more than of age and you're no longer employed at Hogwarts, I fail to see why there should be a problem."

"It must be a great relief for you to dismiss our history together with so little effort," he replied, in cutting tones. "I, however, do not find it quite so easy."

_Then perhaps you should have thought of that before you kissed me_, Hermione thought, but she did not say the words aloud. Instead she withdrew her hands from his and wrapped her arms around her midsection, fingers pressed into her sides. Strange that she should still feel so cold, when the warmth of the fire really was more than adequate. "Why not, Severus?

Abruptly he stood and went toward the fire, his back to her. Still facing toward the hearth, he said, "Because then I would have to admit when these feelings actually began."

His words made no sense. Was he somehow implying that he had felt an attraction to her even before now? "And when was that?" she asked softly, unsure as to whether she would receive an answer.

For a long moment he remained silent, his form silhouetted against the red-gold glow of the hearth. Then he turned and gave her a considering look. "Your mind was always quite astonishing."

"Really?" Hermione said. "Because I always got the impression you were rather unimpressed by me."

"Naturally I could not have praised a Gryffindor," Severus replied, but something about the way his eyes glinted as he uttered the words made her think he might be teasing her ever so slightly.

Refusing to let herself be baited, she murmured, "Naturally."

"Besides, you had the rest of the professors at Hogwarts singing your praises – I saw no need to add my voice to the choir."

Well, that was definitely Severus Snape all over again. Of course he couldn't possibly praise her when everyone else was doing so. Hermione said nothing, but merely crossed her arms and continued to meet his gaze.

He did not look away. She'd rather expected he wouldn't. "I had never seen anyone as skilled as you in Potions – not since…her."

_Even now he can't speak her name_, Hermione thought, and wasn't sure whether the realization saddened or angered her. Was that how Severus saw her – as a sort of second-best Lily Potter? Not trusting herself to speak, Hermione could only continue to sit there on the couch, hands still clenched at her sides, her entire frame feeling as if it had been hit by a Body-Bind Curse, incapable of movement.

Whether her silence discomfited him, she couldn't tell. After a brief hesitation, he said, "You were a student. Whatever else others may have thought of me, no one could have ever accused me of unprofessionalism in my conduct. When I realized I had a particular interest in you, I told myself it was simply because of your natural gifts in the subject I taught and nothing more. Still, when you did not return for your final year, I felt some measure of relief. At least I did not have to shield you from the Carrows – or myself."

These revelations were so astonishing that for a few seconds Hermione could only remain as she was, frozen in place as she gazed up into his face. His features looked harsher than ever, twisted as they were with dark memory, but to her they were familiar and now even more beloved. So many questions flooded her mind that she didn't quite know where to start, but she decided it was probably best to begin with less troublesome, more recent territory. "Then when you first came to visit me at Rosedell, and you said the visit had been 'most educational' – were you practicing a little Legilimency on me, Severus?"

"Perhaps a very little. Your face reveals far more than you might think."

"And so – "

"And so I felt the first flicker of hope I had experienced in a very long while." At last he moved away from the fire and stepped toward the sofa. With both hands he reached out to her, and Hermione unclenched her icy fingers and let his warm, strong ones surround hers. She stood, allowing him to draw her against his chest, feeling the folds of his heavy robes sweep around them, enclosing them in a private little circle of warmth.

Safe and content as she might have been in that moment, Hermione still felt herself compelled to ask another question. She knew she would not rest easy until she had the truth of the matter from him. "But I'm not – not some sort of replacement for her, am I? Not the one you're settling for because you could never have the person you really wanted?"

At once he took her by the arms and held her a little ways away from him. Black eyes scanned her face, and then he lifted one hand to push back a loose curl that had fallen over her forehead. "No. You undervalue yourself in thinking such a thing. I am not a replacement for Ron, am I?"

At once she shook her head. Of course Severus was not Ron's replacement – Ron had held a unique place in her heart, just as Severus did now. Love was not a finite thing, after all, something to be measured and divided and meted out in carefully calculated portions. She would always love Ron, but that took nothing away from her feelings for Severus now…just as his own feelings for Lily Potter didn't necessarily have anything to do with his regard for her. If that regard had its origins in certain similarities between herself and Lily, how could she blame him for that? It would be like finding fault with someone just because he preferred blondes to brunettes or short women to tall.

"Whatever we may have been in the past -- and whoever we are today, it doesn't change this," Hermione said, and this time she was the one to reach out to him, to clasp her hands in his. "We're here together now, despite everything. I don't care about the difference in our age. I don't care what you might have done once upon a time. I only want to know one thing."

Was it the chancy light from the fire, or had she seen a hint of a smile at the edges of his mouth? "And what is that?"

"Do you regret kissing me that first time?"

His response was immediate. "Of course not."

The lack of hesitation in his reply told Hermione more than any mere words of his could have. She grinned and said, "Then kiss me again and prove it."

At once he bent his head to hers, his mouth meeting her lips with an intensity to match the desire she felt sweep over her at the first touch of his kiss. It was true – she didn't care about anything, except that she was with him here and now. On the surface the whole situation was about twenty kinds of wrong, but she knew, as her body thrilled at his touch and the blood pounded in her veins, that being with Severus Snape was completely, deliciously right.


	13. Unexpected Insights

Well, I didn't this expect to take so long...sorry about the delay. No exuses except that life has been sort of crazy the past few weeks! (It also didn't help that when I finally got this chapter done, ff.n was being buggy again and wouldn't let me upload it. Insert long-suffering sigh here.) BTW, ff.n keeps eating my italics, so after putting them in three times and having them disappear, I'm giving up. Thoughts should be italicized, but if ff.n doesn't want them that way, so be it. I'm too tired to fight with this site any longer!

Thanks to everyone for your wonderful reviews!

* * *

Thirteen: Unexpected Insights

After a time Hermione found it necessary to catch her breath, so she pulled away from Severus and sank back down on the sofa. He remained standing, and watched her with that closed, careful expression she had come to recognize as the one he tended to don whenever he might have given away too much of himself. So be it – she was already rather astonished by how much he had revealed in their last exchange. She wouldn't force the issue.

Instead she clasped her hands across her knees and said, "I overheard the oddest exchange at the Apothecary's whilst shopping for your potions supplies."

"Indeed?" He did not appear particularly impressed.

"Indeed," Hermione repeated. "It was Pansy Park – I mean, Pansy Malfoy. It seems she's in desperate need of phoenix tears."

For a second Severus looked almost startled. Then his eyes narrowed. "You're certain of that?"

"There's nothing wrong with my hearing," Hermione retorted. "I heard her, plain as you're speaking to me now. She seemed very upset that the Apothecary hadn't been able to procure any for her. It seemed most odd – I would think if she had such an urgent need for the tears, it would have been for a sudden or an acute injury or illness. But it sounded to me as if she'd been inquiring after them for some time."

He made no immediate reply, but went to the window and pulled aside the heavy dark drape. Outside snow had begun to fall; Hermione could see a vague drifting veil of white as it wrapped itself around the cottage. Severus' profile looked black and severe in contrast, and even more bleak than the landscape it partly obscured.

His silence unnerved her, so Hermione stood and went to join him by the casement. Even from a foot away she could feel the cold seeping in around the window frame, and she repressed a shiver.

"What is it, Severus?" she asked. "Have you thought of something?"

At once he shook his head. "Thank you for such confidence in my powers of deductive reasoning, but no, I have no explanations to offer at this time."

For some reason she wasn't sure he spoke the complete truth, but as she lacked any powers of Legilimency of her own, Hermione didn't know how to tell for certain. "Can phoenix tears be used for chronic conditions? I've only ever seen them utilized in emergency situations."

"Yes, Master Potter did tend to use Fawkes as personal apothecary," Severus remarked in caustic tones, which Hermione thought rather unfair. After all, Harry hadn't even known phoenix tears had healing properties until Professor Dumbledore used them to cure him after his confrontation with the basilisk. Then again, she had the feeling it would be a very long time – if ever – before Severus or Harry could regard one another in an unbiased fashion. "It is not unheard of," Severus added, "but because of the scarcity of the ingredient, phoenix tears have never been regarded as a reliable substitute for healing potions, especially those potions designed to alleviate persistent illnesses, such as arthritis or asthma."

"Judging by Pansy's response when the apothecary told her he still didn't have any tears to give her, I would say whatever ailment is involved here is a little more serious than arthritis," Hermione replied.

Severus lifted his shoulders. "No doubt. However, I have noticed a regrettable tendency on the part of most people to magnify the ills of those closest to them."

"Well, sometimes it is difficult to remain objective in those situations." Regrettable? Hermione thought. Perhaps a man who hasn't allowed himself to care about anyone for a very long time would see it that way. Pointing out that fact to Severus, however, didn't seem like a very good idea. Besides, he had already given rather strong evidence that he had begun to care for her. Hermione hoped they would never have a reason to find out how he would react if she were the one wounded, or gravely ill.

"That is precisely when people should be objective," he said, not bothering to hide his scorn. "Allowing one's emotions to control the situation inevitably leads to mistakes."

"I hope that belief doesn't extend to our particular circumstance," Hermione countered. "I'd hate to be thought of as a mistake."

At her comment Severus turned to face her. "At first I thought it was," he said, then, before Hermione could open her mouth to make an angry reply, "but I have since re-evaluated the situation."

"Oh, have you?" she said, her tone arch.

As she had hoped, his expression warmed the slightest bit. "Yes…after collecting additional information."

"I always was partial to research," Hermione replied.

"You have a definite talent for it." With that he bent his head to kiss her again, the heavy coarse hair brushing against her cheeks, his mouth strong and warm. Hermione allowed herself to fall into his embrace, to let her worries and doubts and fears be swept away by the astonishing fact that Severus Snape had somehow come to care for her. When they broke apart, the discussion moved on to more inconsequential matters, such as what to have for supper, and Pansy Malfoy and her curious visit to the Apothecary's were forgotten for the moment.

It was only some time later, after Hermione had returned home to Rosedell, that she began to wonder whether Severus had steered the conversation away from the mystery of Malfoy Manor on purpose.

* * *

The next day was a Saturday, and Hermione had fully intended to return to Yorkshire after the minor housekeeping tasks she'd already scheduled for the morning were complete. However, those plans were neatly foiled when a pretty little tawny owl Hermione recognized as Ginny's –Harry still couldn't bring himself to replace Hedwig -- flew past the kitchen window. 

Fighting a sense of resignation, Hermione went to the back door and opened it. The bird, whom Ginny had named Aldis, waited for her there on the step, a piece of parchment tied to its leg. She bent down to retrieve the message, and unrolled the note as she stood.

Just one line in Ginny's careful, rounded hand: Could you come see me at your earliest convenience?

Polite words, but Hermione got the distinct impression Ginny had more on her mind than a simple visit. Perhaps Harry or George had blabbed something to her about seeing Hermione with a strange man in the East End. You'd think Ginny would have enough to occupy her, with a week-old infant to care for, but –

At that thought Hermione stopped herself. After all, there was no use getting worked up over something which could turn out to be completely innocuous. And really, a short visit with Ginny didn't preclude a return trip to Yorkshire later that afternoon. She'd told Severus she would be back but hadn't said exactly when, so she had no true reason to decline. Still, she couldn't help but feel a bit put out as she gathered up a spare piece of parchment and scratched out a quick note saying she would be over within the hour. Alone as she had felt during these past six months, there were times when it seemed the opposite was true, that she was being smothered by her relations.

And sometimes you just don't make any sense at all, she thought ruefully, while she sealed up the note and reattached it to Aldis' leg. You can't expect people to know instinctively when you want to be left alone and when you don't, for goodness' sake.

Aldis flew off to the southeast, but Hermione remained on the back step long after the owl's dark shape had disappeared into the woods that bordered her property. A flood of cold air washed over her, bringing with it a scent of damp leaves and moist earth, and she knew she would have to go back inside soon. But there was something about the stillness in the air, the symmetry of stark bare branches and smooth, fresh-fallen snow, which awoke an unexpected ache in her heart. Somehow the chill, stark beauty of the morning made her think of Severus, of the harsh but somehow elegant outline of his profile. For a few seconds she regretted her note to Ginny -- in that moment, Hermione wanted nothing more than to return to Yorkshire at once. But she knew she had a duty to see her sister-in-law, and Severus could wait a few more hours. After all, he more than most men had a habit of solitude.

The previous evening she had asked him what they were doing, and although he had at least given her some small reassurance as to his feelings for her, he hadn't gone any further than that. No soothing words about a future together, no guarantees that they would have anything more than these stolen hours they shared. Their relationship – if one could even call it that – was new and fragile, of course, but Hermione found herself wishing she had a better idea where all this might end.

A shiver struck her, and with some reluctance she returned to the friendly warmth of her yellow-painted kitchen, resolutely shutting the back door against the icy morning. Crookshanks wandered in from the dining room and immediately wound himself around her legs, no doubt in an attempt to convince her that giving him some kippers was her next order of business.

"Not likely," she told the cat. "You're getting a bit plump, as far as I can tell. When was the last time you chased a mouse?"

Crookshanks shot her an irritated yellow-eyed glare and extricated himself from between her ankles, then stalked off into the dining room. Well, her comment about the cat's increasing midsection was nothing more than the truth, although Hermione supposed she could have been a bit more diplomatic. Then again, it wasn't her fault that Crookshanks seemed to spend the hours she was away lounging on the furniture instead of keeping the pantry mouse-free. She'd seen a few telltale signs of rodent invasion and considered placing some charms in the kitchen to repel the mice, but had hesitated, worried she might offend her cat by doing so. Still, if he wasn't going to hold up his end of the bargain….

With a shrug Hermione went into the bathroom, gave herself a quick once-over in the mirror and decided she looked well enough for a casual visit to her sister-in-law's house, then collected her traveling cloak from the hall closet. Although she wore jeans and the sweater Molly had given her for Christmas, she decided the cloak would be better than the Muggle overcoat she had worn to Wiltshire in her guise as a member of the Rural Watch.

Don't want them thinking I've gone completely native, she reflected with a mental grin, and then Disapparated to the front step of number 12, Grimmauld Place. The front door opened almost before she had finished knocking, and Kreacher bowed low, stepping aside to let her in.

"Mistress Potter is in the front parlor," he said, his rusty voice contrasting sharply with the polite words.

"Thank you, Kreacher," Hermione replied, then removed her cloak and handed it to him. This was another battle she'd long since given up; after a few scandalized comments by the house-elf as to the impropriety of young witches hanging up their own outerwear, Hermione had acceded to his wishes and allowed Kreacher to handle cloakroom duties.

The front parlor was as bright and cheery as the gray January day would allow. A lively fire smelling of apple wood burned in the hearth, and magical lamps cast a warm yellow glow throughout the chamber. Young James Sirius slept in a cradle placed just close enough to the fire for him to stay warm, but not so close that there would be any worries over errant sparks. Hermione spied a few tufts of black hair sticking up past his carefully bundled blankets.

Ginny had been sitting in a chair next to the baby, but she rose at once as Hermione entered the room. No signs of new motherhood weariness in her sister-in-law – Ginny glowed, her soft blue robes setting off her gleaming copper-colored hair to perfection.

"You look wonderful," Hermione said. It was the simple truth.

"So do you," Ginny replied, but she didn't sound terribly happy about that fact. Then she indicated the wing chair facing her own. "Would you like to sit down? I asked Kreacher to get us some tea."

It was nowhere near the usual time for such things, and Hermione knew for a fact that Ginny had never been much of a tea drinker. Feeling more than a little apprehensive, she took the seat Ginny had pointed to and folded her hands in her lap. Hermione hated being so awkward around Ginny, whom she'd come to regard as the sister she never had, but how could she be anything but nervous, with the weight of her secret relationship with Severus Snape weighing on her?

"James Sirius certainly has a lot of hair," she commented, hoping to distract Ginny with talk of her newborn son.

"Yes, he does," Ginny replied, and cast a quick, fond look at the sleeping child. But apparently she was made of tougher stuff than that. She leaned forward and went on, "Harry says you were in London for dinner last weekend."

Hermione repressed a sigh. I should've just taken out an advert in the Prophet and had done with it, she thought. "I already went over this with Harry. Nothing happened."

"I know that."

"So what else is there to say?" For the first time Hermione realized Harry was nowhere in evidence, and wondered if Ginny had manufactured some errand for him so he would be safely out of the house when Hermione arrived.

"We didn't really talk about this part, did we?" Ginny inquired. She frowned, and pushed her hair back over her shoulder in an impatient gesture Hermione knew all too well. "That is, I knew one day you'd start to move on. I suppose I didn't think it would happen this fast."

"Nothing's happened, Ginny." To her dismay, Hermione found her heart had begun to beat a little more rapidly. She'd never been that accomplished a liar – would she be able to conceal the truth of her personal life from her sister-in-law?

Ginny gave her a sad little smile. "You can keep on saying that, Hermione, if it makes you feel better. But there's something different about you – the sparkle's back in your eyes, and if I didn't know better, I'd say you grew an inch in the past month. So I have to assume it's because something has changed."

Kreacher chose that moment to appear with the tea, so Hermione was spared from making a reply for a few moments while he bustled about with sugar cubes and milk and biscuits. But at last he disappeared again, and she was left to stare into Ginny's worried brown eyes and cast about for something noncommittal but reassuring to say.

Ginny forestalled her. "I just want to let you know that it's all right, Hermione. Harry's being impossible about the whole thing, but I know you couldn't mourn Ron forever. That is, of course you'll mourn him, but you're still alive – you can't stop your own life just because he's no longer in it."

It had never occurred to Hermione that Ginny might be so understanding – after all, Ron had been her older brother, a bond even closer than the one Harry and Ron had shared. But Ginny also had an inherently practical nature, a quality Hermione had always felt made the younger woman a good match for Harry's more mercurial temperament.

However, Hermione thought she should at least attempt to set the record straight. "Ginny, I'm not seeing any Muggle. Really."  
At that comment Ginny gave her a piercing look and replied, "Well, perhaps you're not seeing that particular man, but you're definitely seeing someone."

Hermione returned her stare with as guileless a glance as possible. "Did you ever think that perhaps this supposed 'glow' you've noticed is merely due to my promotion?"

"Oh, I thought it…for about five seconds," Ginny said, with a small chuckle. "But somehow I didn't think even you would look quite that transfigured by a promotion."

Feeling trapped, Hermione leaned forward and picked up her cup of tea. It was quite hot; faint wisps of steam curled up from its surface. Since she knew she wouldn't be able to drink the cup's contents for a few more minutes, she settled for wrapping her fingers around the soothing heat of the warm ceramic and making a show of blowing on the tea within to cool it down.

"If you don't want to talk about it, that's all right." Ginny retrieved her own cup – peppermint, by the smell of it. Of course Ginny would be avoiding anything caffeinated while she was nursing the baby. "I just wanted to let you know that I wouldn't be upset."

It was more than Hermione could have wished for, such honesty and acceptance from someone who had suffered and lost a great deal as well. But somehow Hermione couldn't bring herself to believe that Ginny would be quite so understanding if she were informed that the current object of Hermione's affections was Severus Snape, a man who had once been a Death Eater, a man who had made Harry's life miserable, a man who – if not quite old enough to be Hermione's father, was a least a great deal older than she. No, such a revelation would surely strain the limits of even Ginny's forbearance.

"Thank you, Ginny," Hermione said, after an awkward pause. She truly was thankful to her sister-in-law for her kindness, even if Hermione knew that kindness probably wouldn't extend to accepting Severus Snape as part of her extended family. But perhaps Ginny would at least be able to start Harry down the road to realizing that Hermione couldn't stay alone forever…and perhaps one day he would be able to understand why she had inexplicably found solace in the Potions master's arms.

And maybe the sky will be covered in rainbows, and purebloods will become best friends with Muggle-borns, and we'll all live happily ever after, she thought sourly. Still, she knew she had to allow herself the hope that someday she wouldn't have to keep her relationship with Severus a secret. He had given so much of himself – after more than four decades on this planet, couldn't he be granted at least a small measure of happiness?

The world didn't work that way, unfortunately -- those who were deserving often seemed to be overlooked when it came time for Fate to decide who would prosper and who would toil their whole lives in unhappy anonymity. Not that Severus was anything resembling anonymous. If he were, the situation would be much easier.

Hermione looked up from her mug of tea to see that Ginny watched her with careful, concerned eyes. "I know you're worried about Harry, what he'll say to you," Ginny said. Her mouth twisted in a rueful smile. "And I suppose you have every right to be, since we both know how Harry can be when he gets his knickers in a twist. But with all the losses he's had to deal with in his life, he hasn't ever faced losing a lover. He can't imagine trying to replace his parents, and so he can't understand why you'd be wanting to replace Ron. Not that that's what you're doing, of course," she hastened to add, as Hermione felt herself gather breath to say Ron could never be replaced. "I don't mean to imply that at all. But you can see why Harry is having a difficult time with the idea of you moving on."

Her sister-in-law's words were such an echo of Hermione's earlier conversation with Severus that she felt somewhat astounded. Despite knowing Ginny couldn't possibly be practicing Legilimency on her, Hermione hesitated before she spoke, lest she give anything else important away. "I don't know if I'm moving on," she said at last. "I suppose I've just been thinking of it as trying to live my life."

"Which is exactly what you should be doing." A mischievous glint entered Ginny's warm russet-brown eyes. "Although I have to admit that I'd give quite a few Galleons to know exactly who it is that put the spring back in your step."

Hermione forced a lightness into her tone she certainly didn't feel. "Oh, believe me, you'd never guess." Not in a thousand years, she thought, and thank God for that.

"No, and I know you won't tell me." Ginny picked up her neglected cup of peppermint tea and sipped at its contents. "So let's have a good gossip. I haven't gotten out at all lately, and I'm starting to feel as if the walls are closing in. Is it true that Gwenog Jones is actually dating Myron Wagtail?"

For a few seconds Hermione could only stare at her sister-in-law as she tried to think who on earth Ginny was talking about. Then she shook her head with a laugh and replied, "I should think you'd know that better than I -- after all, you and Gwenog were teammates for several years."

"Yes, but now I'm the 'domestic defector,' as she put it. Can't understand how there could possibly be something more important in life than playing Quidditch!" Then Ginny's gaze strayed to the cradle, and although her expression softened almost imperceptibly, still there was something in her eyes as she stared down at her sleeping son that made an odd pang go through Hermione. If she'd been asked (and she hadn't), she would have said it was silly for Ginny and Harry to start their family so early, especially since Ginny had begun to make quite the name for herself as the new Seeker for the Holyhead Harpies. With Voldemort defeated and the wizarding world as safe as it could be, there seemed no reason to rush into having a baby. But now, as Hermione watched Ginny and saw the exquisite tenderness with which her sister-in-law leaned over the cradle and made the minutest adjustment in James Sirius's blankets, she thought perhaps her own judgment of the situation had been over-hasty. Would things have been different, she wondered, if I hadn't convinced Ron that we had plenty of time for children?

But that thought would only lead her into blind alleys of pain where she'd trapped herself too many times before. Magic could do many things, but it couldn't change what had happened to Ron. Brooding over might-have-beens wouldn't alter the fact that Ron had died far sooner than he deserved. With the regret came the tiniest trickle of doubt, the smallest whisper of a traitorous thought. And would you really want to change things, even if you could? Would you rather have never come to know Severus as you do now?

Some questions had no answers, and Hermione pushed those poisonous thoughts away with a conscious effort. What good did it do to torture herself? Was she somehow trying to punish herself for loving Severus Snape?

The world will probably do that for you, she reflected with some bitterness. With a conscious effort she summoned a smile and told Ginny, "Well, I suppose some people don't really mind so much about having a family. After all, Gwenog's been with the Harpies for so long, perhaps she regards them as her family."

"Perhaps," Ginny said, but she sounded dubious.

"At any rate," Hermione continued, with a forced cheeriness she hoped might turn into the real thing if she kept the conversation on lighter topics long enough, "I don't pay much attention to the gossip pages of the Prophet. I've never been able to understand why people find such things so fascinating."

"Wait until you're stuck in the house with a newborn baby. Believe me, you'll find the silliest things fascinating -- at least they aren't nappies and midnight feedings and croup!" As soon as the words left her mouth, however, Ginny looked stricken, as if she just realized it would probably be quite some time -- if ever -- before Hermione had any reason to concern herself with such domestic matters. Ginny began to blurt out an awkward apology, and Hermione said at once,

"Oh, don't worry, Ginny, I know what you meant. Don't think another thing about it." Her tone sounded hearty enough, but Hermione thought her denials didn't ring quite true, even to herself. After all, if she had no real idea what her future with Severus held, how could she even begin to think what it might be like to have a family of her own with him one day?

That forlorn realization made foolish, sudden tears want to spring to her eyes, but Hermione resolutely blinked them away. If nothing else, blubbering in front of Ginny would almost certainly lead to more awkward questions, and that was the last thing she wanted.

Questions fairly danced in Ginny's eyes, but she said only lifted the plate of refreshments and said, "Biscuit?"

For some reason the single incongruous word caused a helpless giggle to bubble up in her throat. Hermione burst out laughing, and after a moment Ginny joined it, albeit with a slightly puzzled air, as if she wasn't quite sure what was so funny but guessed it would be better to go along with the joke for now.

I'd tell her, if I could, Hermione thought. I just wish I didn't have the feeling that somehow the joke is on me….


	14. The Serpent's Den

Well, it looks as if ff.n is working for now (I heard through the grapevine it was having issues...again). Thank God, because finishing a chapter only to find out that ff.n has blown yet another gasket really irks me to no end. Thank you once again to all my indefatigable reviewers!

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Fourteen: The Serpent's Den

Fate seemed to be conspiring against Hermione's return to Yorkshire. No sooner had she returned to Rosedell after leaving Ginny's company than she was greeted by the incessant beeping of her cell phone, indicating someone had left her a new voicemail. Hermione hadn't taken the phone with her when she went to London, as she hadn't thought she would have any need of it at Grimmauld Place.

_Best-laid plans_, she thought, and crossed over to the side table where she'd left the phone. She called in for her voicemail, only to discover that the message had been left by her mother. Apparently her father had fallen off a ladder while taking down the Christmas lights (he'd developed the habit of leaving them up at least through Twelfth Night and often longer, a practice of which Hermione's mother heartily disapproved). He was in no danger, but he had broken his leg, and if Hermione could come to the hospital as soon as possible, that would be wonderful.

Her mother sounded breezy and unconcerned, but since that was her usual aspect whether performing a root canal or planting a set of spring bulbs, it was difficult for Hermione to tell how serious the situation really might be. She discarded her traveling cloak and shrugged into her warm brown Muggle overcoat, then hesitated. She had told Severus she would return to Yorkshire some time today, but that prospect now seemed rather dim. Too bad he didn't have a cell phone of his own – she could just ring him up and tell him she'd try to be over when she could. She grinned a little at the incongruous thought of Severus Snape holding a slim modern phone up to his shaggy black head and guessed that was a sight she would probably never see.

Really, the wizarding world was downright obtuse when it came to Muggle devices – owls were all well and good, but sometimes they seemed so cumbersome. And since of course the fireplace at Severus' home wasn't on the Floo network, she couldn't use that, either. A tidy little cell phone would have been quite handy – and it was certainly something other wizards and witches would never think of interfering with. However, lacking that particular marvel of modern technology, Hermione decided to use the next best thing. She lifted her wand, filled her mind with the marvelous sensation of Severus' mouth on hers, the dark, rich sound of his voice saying her name, and cried, "_Expecto Patronum!_"

At once a silvery otter shape erupted from the end of her wand and scampered away through the wall, rushing northward with all the strength of her love for Severus and her desire to see him again. She'd learned this particular trick from the senior members of the Order, and it seemed the best solution now: the Patronus would reach Yorkshire far more quickly than even a Transfigured Crookshanks could have, and once it had delivered its message, the Patronus would melt away, its work done.

Satisfied she had done everything she could, Hermione Disapparated to an alley a few blocks away from her parents' office; it was someplace she knew well and had used in the past as an Apparition point. From there it was about a quarter-mile to Whittington Hospital, where her father had been taken after his fall. She could have made the short hop on a bus, but instead Hermione finished the remainder of her journey on foot. The day continued gray and lowering, but the snow held off, and the cold air helped to clear her head somewhat. It felt a little odd to be just another ordinary, anonymous member in a crowd of Muggles – even though she knew she wasn't really one of them anymore, and never would be. At times like this she could understand why even Muggle-born wizards tended to divorce themselves from the nonmagical world in which they had grown up. The burden of carrying such an enormous secret was a heavy one; better to stay away in order to ensure the continued safety of wizarding society's mysteries.

After making her way to the reception area and ascertaining to which room her father had been assigned, Hermione took the lift to the Victoria ward, where she found her father appearing to rest comfortably in a semi-private room. The chamber held one other bed, but it was unoccupied at the moment. Her mother sat in a chair at her father's bedside, and the television overhead had been turned on, although with the sound muted.

"That was quick," he commented, turning his head on his pillow to give her an approving smile.

"Well, you know I have my own ways of getting around," Hermione replied. The room was quite warm, so she unbuttoned her overcoat and pulled it off, then slung it over one arm. "So why didn't you have anyone helping you with those lights, or at the very least steadying the ladder?" After she asked this question she shot a look of vague disapproval at her mother. Where had she been when he suffered his fall?

"I told him to wait just fifteen minutes -- I had a roast to get in the oven," her mother said calmly. "But since it was George, he couldn't be bothered."

From anyone else, such a statement might have bordered on shrewish. But Hermione's mother smiled as she said it, and the look of loving amusement on her face was so clear that it was obvious she hadn't said such a thing to deride or demean him. She had simply stated the truth.

"Well, now, I can't deny that," Hermione's father said, and chuckled. "So that bit of impatience has gotten me a fine cast." He reached down and twitched aside the thin hospital blankets so she could see the cast that covered his lower right leg. "At least it wasn't the femur -- I would've been off it for several months, most likely. I'd have you sign it, but plaster isn't quite set."

"Oh, Dad," Hermione said, and although she really tried to inject some of the disapproval she thought she should be feeling into her tone, somehow she knew she failed miserably. Somehow it was impossible to be angry with her father for very long.

His brown eyes glinted up at her. "They wanted to keep me overnight, but I said that was foolishness. It's just a broken leg, after all. But your mother and I hoped you could stay the weekend, help around the house a bit until I get used to hobbling about on this thing. What do you say?"

Agreeing to such a proposition meant it would be impossible to see Severus any time in the near future, and a painful ache started somewhere beneath Hermione's breastbone. But she also knew she had no reason to decline -- at least, no reason she could use in this situation. Of course her parents knew very little of Severus Snape and his history in the wizarding world, but Hermione had the feeling they wouldn't be overly thrilled with the situation, for the mere fact that he was twenty years her senior and a former professor to boot. From somewhere she summoned a feeble little smile and replied, "Oh, of course. I'd be glad to help."

"We knew you would," her mother said, and from there launched into a brisk discussion of how they could set up the guest room on the ground floor of the house as her father's temporary sleeping quarters, since it would be quite some time before he would be able to manage the stairs.

Hermione tried to pay as close attention as she could, since she knew her mother disliked woolgathering on general principle. However, she couldn't help noticing the snow which had begun to drift past the window, and from there it was no great leap to wonder if that same snow fell on Yorkshire, and to think how much she would rather be there in the shabby, cozy warmth of Severus' cottage. Still, Hermione believed she nodded at the correct intervals, and her mother didn't appear to notice anything amiss.

The remainder of Hermione's afternoon was occupied with all the preparations for taking her father home, followed by the bustle of moving his things downstairs and the inevitable argument over whether to order Thai or Indian food for dinner, since by that point neither Hermione nor her mother wanted to set foot in the kitchen. Hermione managed to slip out for a bit after dinner, saying she needed to return to Rosedell to fetch a few things for her overnight stay. That was true enough, but after she packed her overnight bag she sent another Patronus to Yorkshire to let Severus know she would not be returning home until Sunday night at the very earliest. Her stay could stretch out from there; after all, it was just as easy to get to the Ministry from her parents' home in Highbury as it was from Rosedell. Easier, really -- she wouldn't even have to Apparate if she didn't want to, since there was a Tube station only a block away from Ministry headquarters.

By the time she lay down in her old childhood bed, Hermione felt wearier than she had any right to be. After all, she hadn't done so very much, merely helped to set up the guest room and rooted around in the garage for a piece of plywood to cover the front steps so her father wouldn't have to attempt to navigate them.

But she still felt bone tired, as if she had spent the whole day scouring the woods for Potions ingredients or working page after page of Arithmancy problems. Perhaps it was merely her disappointment at not seeing Severus catching up with her. Strange how she could miss him so dreadfully, ache to hear the deep, ironic drawl of his voice and feel his strong arms fold around her. Yes, she could probably steal a few hours on a weeknight to go visit him, but it wasn't the same as spending an entire Saturday afternoon in his presence.

_Then perhaps you should just stay overnight when you do get a chance to see him_, Hermione thought, and almost at once felt a rush of heat in her cheeks. Where on earth had _that_ come from? She certainly wasn't the type to go jumping into bed with someone -- she and Ron had waited for their wedding night, even though the delay had made him almost crazy with frustration, and Hermione hadn't been much better. Then again, what was she saving herself for? The heat between her and Severus was real enough -- why not act upon it?

_How about the simple reason that he's never shown any indication he intends the relationship to go in that direction any time soon?_ she asked herself. Well, that might be true, but perhaps he was merely holding back, unsure of how she would feel about such a thing so soon after Ron's death. And what did she know of Severus' history with these matters, anyway? He'd loved Lily obsessively -- had he let go of that obsession long enough to be with another woman, even on a purely physical level? Or was he even less experienced than she? This was such a novel thought Hermione paused for a moment to consider it. Certainly Severus seemed so self-assured, so dismissive of other people's faults, it seemed impossible he could be so inexperienced. Or was the ironic exterior merely his way of hiding what he must surely think of as a dark secret?

She couldn't be certain, and she didn't know whether she'd have the courage to ask him such a question. _He certainly kisses well enough_, she thought. _More than well, actually. Fortescue once said "comparisons are odious," but it doesn't change the fact that I enjoy Severus' kisses far more than I ever did Ron's._

This realization seemed traitorous in the extreme, and Hermione rolled over in bed, hoping that by finding a more comfortable position she might be able to find the sleep which had so far eluded her. A glimmer outside the window caught her eye, faintly visible through the thin material of her curtains. She sat up and pushed the drapes aside, then caught her breath.

Standing outside in the backyard, the fresh snow reflecting its warm golden light, was a Patronus in the delicate shape of a doe. It lifted its fine head as Hermione stared down at it, but it did not move or attempt to approach the house. It merely stood there, watching her. Hermione raised one hand and pressed it against the icy window, trying to communicate some of her own longing through that one simple gesture.

For an endless, aching moment they both were still, Hermione staring down at the Patronus, the shimmering doe watching her with wide, golden eyes. Then it dipped its head ever so slightly and bounded away, clearing the high wall that enclosed the backyard as if it were nothing. Even after it had disappeared from sight, Hermione remained as she was, hand still flat against the cold window pane. Finally the chill seemed to penetrate her flesh, and she lifted her fingers and let the curtain fall back into place. She slid down beneath the covers once more, feeling impossibly warmed despite the little drafts that crept in around the window. Even when she closed her eyes she saw the doe watching her, a tangible reminder of Severus' love, its warm glow following her even into sleep and beyond.

* * *

Hermione needed to remember that glow, for she was unable to return to home before Monday morning came. As she had packed several sets of robes against such an eventuality, she went straight to the Ministry from her parents' house. She would have to return to Rosedell that night, however; she'd left enough food for Crookshanks to fend for himself, and he had the cat door in the kitchen so he could come and go, but she didn't want to risk the feline displeasure that would surely arise if she spent another night away. 

Barely a quarter-hour had passed since she settled herself at her desk before Miles Cornish stuck his head in her door and said, "A word in my office, Hermione."

Although he sounded anything but upset or angry, she couldn't help feeling a leaden lump settle in her stomach. After all, one's superiors very rarely called someone into their office to praise them or offer words of encouragement. But she gathered together a reasonable facsimile of a cheery smile and said, "Of course, Mr. Cornish."

She followed him to his office, and was not encouraged when he shut the door behind them. He took a seat behind the desk and then said, "Do sit down, Hermione."

Since there was little else she could do, Hermione pulled out the chair a few inches and then sat, folding her hands in her lap and fixing her supervisor with what she hoped was an expression of enthusiastic but polite curiosity. "Yes, Mr. Cornish?"

With a sinking feeling in her midsection, she watched as he drew out the maroon-covered report she had prepared on the Malfoy investigation. He did not open it, however, but merely rested his elbows on top of it as he steepled his fingers under his chin. "Do you know what impressed me most about this report, Hermione?"

She shook her head.

"The fact that so little could be dressed up to look like so much." At that point he did pick up the slender hide-covered volume and open it, then leafed through the pages without actually looking at them. "Complete transcripts of your interviews with the victims. A map of the countryside around Malfoy Manor with all the attack sites called out and annotated with dates and types of injuries. Charts showing the accident rates among Muggles in the area, wildlife populations, and weather conditions. Everything, in fact, but any conclusive evidence that the Malfoys are connected to these attacks, or any indication that you gathered one piece of useful evidence."

With every word Hermione felt herself growing smaller and smaller. Oh, not really, but she did find herself shrinking down into her chair and wishing with each passing second that she could just cast an Invisibility charm or Disapparate straight out of Miles Cornish's office. Even as she had prepared the report she had known it was seriously lacking in substance, but she had told herself that surely her supervisor would be impressed with its thoroughness, its overall polish. But obviously Miles, mild though he might seem on the exterior, was not one to be fooled by fancy footwork.

She cleared her throat. "I'm sorry you feel that way, Mr. Cornish. But I did my best – "

"I know," he said, and although his tone was gentle enough, Hermione could hear the steel beneath it. "At least, I know you thought you did. And truly, this is probably the most professional-looking report to ever cross my desk."

Hermione wished she could have taken some comfort from that bit of praise, but since she knew he had not been impressed by the report's outward excellence, she merely waited to hear what he would say next.

With the barest suggestion of a sigh, he closed the report and pushed it off to one side of his desk. "It appears you did everything but the most obvious. Tell me, Hermione, was there a particular reason why you didn't go interview the Malfoys themselves? Schoolgirl scruples still holding you back?"

"I – erm, that is, I didn't think -- " Hermione floundered. Well, of course she couldn't have gone to confront that Malfoys directly! How could Miles have even expected such a thing of her?

But it seemed that was exactly what he expected. "This is an official investigation, Hermione. You have the weight of the Ministry behind you. If the Malfoys try to give you any trouble – though I doubt they will -- you can call in a few Aurors to back you up." Although Miles had looked quite stern up to this point, his expression softened as he appeared to take in Hermione's worried air. "The War is over, Hermione. Surely you can't think you would be in any danger? The Malfoys have been model citizens of late, which is why these attacks drew this department's attention in the first place. I wouldn't be surprised to learn that they'd be quite helpful in your investigation, especially if their assistance helped to clear their name."

_Unless they really are behind it all_,_ and they're trying desperately to cover it up_, Hermione thought. A nasty, tight sensation began to grow somewhere deep in her stomach. Miles seemed a little too sanguine regarding the Malfoys' innocence. He didn't know them as she did – didn't know what they were capable of. Or was she guilty here as well – guilty of holding onto old memories and prejudices instead of giving the Malfoys a chance to prove their innocence?

"If you think so, Mr. Cornish," she said, and he shook his head.

"It's clear you don't agree with me, and of course that's your prerogative. But you will go back out to Malfoy Manor, and you will conduct a formal interview." From within his desk drawer he pulled out what looked like a shabby brass compact and set it down in front of her. "This two-way mirror connects to one here in the Auror department. Someone will always be on duty to answer your call, if necessary. I don't want you to think you're going into this completely without backup."

With some reluctance Hermione picked up the mirror. Despite its dubious protection, to say she was less than thrilled at having to face the Malfoys on her own was an understatement. If the worst happened, would an Auror even be able to come to her aid in time?

She knew, however, that Miles Cornish was not about to accept any further excuses. For whatever reason, he seemed to truly believe the Malfoys would meekly submit to her questioning. That would be nice, but Hermione did not hold out much hope things would go so smoothly. Telling Miles that the last time she had seen the interior of Malfoy Manor she had been held there against her will – not to mention tortured by Bellatrix Lestrange -- would most likely not help, either. Bellatrix was dead, and the Malfoys apparently reformed, or so they pretended.

_Well, Bellatrix didn't mind four-to-one odds, so I suppose I shan't, either_, Hermione reflected. _Although I'd feel better doing this with a couple of Aurors in tow, or – even better – Severus_. The thought of confronting the Malfoys with him at her side was immediately comforting, even though she knew it was also impossible. It was Severus' decision as to when and where he would reveal himself to the wizarding world…if he chose to do so at all. She would not force him to do such a thing merely because she feared confronting the Malfoys on her own.

As with all unpleasant tasks, the sooner this one was over with, the better. Hermione lifted her chin, tucked the two-way mirror away into her robes, and stood. "Well, I'd best be off, then," she said.

Miles gave her an approving nod. "That's the spirit! And remember to contact us at once if anything seems out of place."

_You can count on that_, she thought. _Unnecessary heroics all too often lead to unnecessary corpses. One can't keep up the good fight if one is dead, after all._

But surely it wouldn't come to that.

Would it?

* * *

The weather was actually more promising in Wiltshire. Although a cold, gray air mass hovered over London, here in the country the clouds had broken up a bit, letting in some sun and revealing patches of deep, serene blue sky. 

Hermione could take little comfort from the beauty of the day around her, however. After leaving Miles Cornish's office, she had gone to her own workspace to don her cloak and prepare herself for the trip to Malfoy Manor. The Ministry did not allow Apparition and Disapparition within its walls, and so she had had to take the lifts to street level and from there slip off into a quiet alleyway where she could depart the scene unnoticed. Her destination had been the fork in the road Severus had shown her several days ago, the one where a small trail wandered off to the left and eventually terminated (she supposed) at the Malfoy estate. Once she was actually standing at the fork and staring down the trail, however, doubt assailed her again. How could Miles have expected her to face down the Malfoys alone, unaided? Her forte was performing research and preparing reports – shouldn't an Auror have been handling this sort of duty?

But for whatever reason, she'd been sent here, and so she'd just have to make the best of it. Her gloved fingers curled around the two-way mirror in her robe pocket. Then Hermione took a deep breath of the frosty air – earning herself a ticklish little cough after doing so – and set off with as much resolution as she could muster.

It was difficult going. As far as she could tell, no one had come down this narrow little path for some time. No doubt the Malfoys used Apparition or brooms or the Floo network to come and go from their estate. Hermione trudged as best she could through the unpleasant mixture of snow and mud, and tried not to think about what it was doing to her boots. Perhaps she should have flown in by broom, even though she had always been an indifferent rider at best. She'd been more than relieved when she passed all her Apparition examinations and could travel in a manner she found far more simple and elegant. But even Apparition wouldn't have worked for her here – of course the Malfoys would have the place sealed up with anti-Apparition charms in addition to their complement of Muggle-repelling spells.

Those at least didn't seem to affect her; at last Hermione found herself in a largish clearing that fronted an elaborate set of wrought-iron gates with an "M" picked out in a motif of winding snakes.

_Subtle_, she thought, with an inward grin. But the Malfoys' ostentation was not at issue here – their bad taste was their own business. Those poor Muggles who had been victimized, however….

Hermione lifted her chin and marched over to the gates. They were locked, of course, but a simple _Alohomora!_ released the lock, allowing her onto the estate property at last.

It was very quiet here. The small breeze she had felt as she slogged along the trail to her destination had disappeared. No birds sang, although Hermione caught a glimpse of shifting movement, white against white, out of the corner of her eye. She whirled, hand going to her wand where it was concealed in her robes, but the object in question turned out to be a white peacock, which shuffled along through the half-melted snow, looking dejected. Even though it was a pet of the Malfoys, Hermione couldn't help feeling a bit sorry for the bird. Shouldn't it have been sheltered in a coop or aviary someplace inside, away from the cold?

But she didn't have time to worry about the peacock, for she was now closing in on the front entrance to the manor. Despite her warm cloak, Hermione shivered. The last time she had been here she had been tortured and thrown in the dungeon, half-certain she would meet her end in this forbidding house. At the time she hadn't been able to get a clear look at it, but even now, under the bright wintry sun, the building appeared dark and brooding, its pseudo-Gothic outlines calculated to inspire fear and awe.

_Not a very cheery place_, Hermione reflected. _No wonder Draco turned out the way he did, growing up in a house like this._

While perhaps it would have be interesting to pause and ruminate on the topic of nature versus nurture and how many of Draco's character flaws arose from the environment in which he was raised rather than inherent defects in his personality, she knew she had a much more important task at hand. While she didn't want to gulp down any more of the chilly air – a coughing fit would be a rather ignominious way to announce her presence – Hermione made herself stand a little taller, shoulders back, head lifted, as if she had every right in the world to be here.

Then she reached out, lifted the knocker, and let it fall.


	15. Consequences

Bet you didn't think I would update this quickly! Some weeks are just like that, I suppose. I also got a big project out of my way last week, so I'm hoping that will give me the extra time I need to keep working away at this. Thank you to all of you for your wonderful insights and reviews!

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Fifteen: Consequences

For several long, agonizing moments Hermione received no answer to her knock. If no one came to the door, she supposed she could try another _Alohomora!_ on the lock, but that would be even worse etiquette than using the spell on the gates. Instead, she waited, trying to comfort herself with the thought that if no one came to the door, she could return to Miles Cornish and simply tell him the Malfoys hadn't been at home when she called.

So Hermione didn't quite know whether to feel disappointed or relieved when at last the door swung slowly inward, and a pair of huge green eyes stared up at her. Evidently Dobby hadn't been the only house-elf enslaved by the Malfoys.

"I would like to see Master Draco or Master Lucius Malfoy," she said in brisk, matter-of-fact tones. House-elves tended to be easily overawed by those who appeared in control of a situation. Good thing her voice sounded firm and strong, even if she would have liked nothing better right then than to Disapparate back to the Ministry and tell Miles Cornish exactly what he could do with his special investigations.

The house-elf jumped slightly, and then stammered, "The masters are indisposed."

"Both of them?" Hermione demanded, attempting to quell a sudden flash of irritation. Really, couldn't he have thought of a better excuse than that?

"Yes, both of them," a cool voice broke in, and Hermione looked up to see Narcissa Malfoy's pale, proud face staring down at her.

Hermione straightened. "Good morning, Mrs. Malfoy."

A sniff. "I see nothing good about it. What do you want?"

It didn't help that Narcissa had a good two or three inches on her. Hermione tried to stand up as straight as possible and match the Malfoy woman's flat, hostile glare. Whatever was going on here, it seemed to have taken its toll on Narcissa as well – there were deep shadows beneath her eyes, and lines had begun to drag their way down from nostril to mouth. She was still lovely, but the façade had started to reveal wear, like cracks showing in the glaze of an ancient porcelain vase. After clearing her throat, Hermione began, "I'm Hermione Granger-Weasley – "

"I know who you are. What are you doing here?"

So much for the pleasantries. "I'm here on Ministry business. We're currently investigating a series of attacks on Muggles in the vicinity. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?"

Probably Narcissa's white skin couldn't go any more pale, but something around her mouth seemed to tighten, and her gaze shifted away from Hermione for the smallest fraction of a second before she appeared to gain control. "I'm afraid I have no idea."

She had to be lying, but of course Hermione hadn't thought it would be that easy. "I'll need to speak to your husband or your son."

"I'm afraid that's impossible."

"Why is that?"

"As Withy said, they are indisposed."

"Ill?"

Once again Narcissa wouldn't meet Hermione's eyes. "I suppose that will do."

From the far end of the room came what sounded like a muffled gasp, and Hermione glanced over to see Pansy paused on the bottom step of a wide, curved staircase. As before, she wore fine velvet robes, this time in a dark mossy green, but despite the fine garments and her carefully arranged hair, she looked drawn and ill. Had she caught whatever ailed Lucius and Draco?

"Hello, Pansy," Hermione said. Her former schoolmate did not reply, but licked her lips nervously, her dark eyes refusing to meet Hermione's. Instead, Pansy glanced over at her mother-in-law, and Hermione, still watching Pansy rather than Narcissa, saw how her fingers clenched a fold of her heavy robes, the pressure leaving dull imprints against the silk velvet. Ignoring the lack of response, Hermione went on, "I'm sorry I didn't get a chance to offer my congratulations to you when I saw you in Diagon Alley. You must be very happy."

Finally Pansy's gaze slid over to her, and she gave an odd little laugh that was almost a sob. "Happy? Happy, did you say?"

"Pansy, I believe you had business upstairs," Narcissa said, in the sort of commanding inflection one would use when addressing an idiot or a small child. "Mrs. Granger-Weasley and I can discuss this alone."

But Pansy didn't move. "Discuss what?"

"The Ministry sent me here," Hermione replied. She knew she would get nowhere with Narcissa; the woman had had years to perfect her stony façade, a perfect match to the house in which she lived. But Pansy -- Pansy had the outward signs of someone on the brink of nervous collapse. Hermione hated the thought of having to exploit the other woman's weakness, but she was conducting an investigation, after all, and perhaps if she could only get to the bottom of the mystery here, she would have a better idea as to whether she would be able to offer any assistance. "We've had disturbing reports of Muggles in the area bordering your property meeting with a series of unexplained accidents. I was hoping Draco or Lucius might be able to shed some light on the subject."

At the mention of her husband and father-in-law, Pansy twitched a little, like a horse that's just felt a fly land on its hindquarters. "They can't talk to you," she said.

"As I was just telling her myself," Narcissa cut in. "They are indisposed. They are not receiving visitors."

"If they're ill, perhaps you should call for a Healer from St. Mungo's," Hermione suggested. Really, even if Draco and Lucius had both fallen prey to some sort of chronic condition, wouldn't a hospital be the best place for them? Narcissa's obfuscations and Pansy's uncharacteristic edginess suddenly seemed bordering on the hysterical. No matter what the Malfoys might have done in the past, they certainly wouldn't have been turned away from St. Mungo's if they were truly in need.

Narcissa said nothing, but Pansy again made one of those odd little sobbing laughs. "A Healer! If only it were that simple!"

"Pansy, that is enough," Narcissa said, in quelling tones, and the look she turned on her daughter-in-law was pure ice.

"It would be best if you cooperated," Hermione told Narcissa, even as she attempted to push away the feeling she was rapidly losing control of the situation. Some drama seemed to be playing out between the two women that had very little to do with her. "The Ministry wants answers, Mrs. Malfoy. The next time they may send a squad of Aurors to question you."

This threat appeared to have little effect. "Aurors!" said Narcissa, her mouth curling in disdain. "I'd like to see them try. A squad of Aurors to take on two innocent women!"

_I wouldn't exactly call you "innocent,"_ Hermione thought, but she held her tongue. "I was merely speaking of cooperation, Mrs. Malfoy. All I need is some proof that no one in this household is responsible for these attacks, and the Ministry will be satisfied."

"Will they?" Narcissa retorted. "Somehow I doubt that. But I have nothing to give you -- only my word that the Ministry is mistaken in believing we are connected in any way with these Muggles you claim have been attacked."

Hermione did not immediately reply, but instead borrowed one of Severus' tricks – she lifted an eyebrow and stared back at Narcissa with what she hoped was an expression of polite yet somehow disdainful disbelief. Perhaps once upon a time Narcissa Malfoy's word would have been worth a great deal, but Hermione knew it would take more than that to satisfy the Ministry. After all, Narcissa had lied to Lord Voldemort's face in order to protect her son -- of course she would do the same thing now, when confronted with a much less intimidating adversary. At least Hermione did not feel herself to be in any danger at the moment, but neither could she think of a way to force Narcissa to tell the truth. _I should have brought some Veritaserum with me_, she thought wryly. _Not that I probably could have managed to force any of it down Narcissa's throat._

"I will of course pass on your remarks to my superiors at the Ministry," Hermione said, after allowing a significant pause before she spoke. "Whether they will be inclined to believe them is another story." She paused, and then glanced over at Pansy, who still stood frozen at the bottom of the staircase. Allowing her tone to soften ever so slightly, Hermione added, "I really do hope you'll consider asking for assistance. But we can't help you if we don't know what the problem is."

Pansy began to open her mouth, but Narcissa forestalled whatever remark she was about to make by saying, "How very noble of you, Mrs. Weasley-Granger. However, we don't need your help – not from the Ministry, and certainly not from a Mudblood such as you."

Of course Narcissa had intended the epithet to insult or upset Hermione, but the elder Malfoy woman didn't know her target very well. Oh, it was a rude word, and Hermione didn't particularly care to have it flung at her, but she had proven herself over and over again to be one of the most talented witches of her generation. The foolish prejudices of a Pureblood woman didn't matter very much in comparison to Hermione's many accomplishments.

Or at least that was what she told herself, before she replied, "I do hope you're correct in that assumption, Mrs. Malfoy." Shifting slightly, Hermione nodded toward Pansy, and then said, "I'll be sure to let the Ministry know how cooperative you both were. Have a good day – I can let myself out." After delivering this parting shot, she turned and strode toward the door, but kept one hand near her concealed wand – just in case. She wouldn't put it past Narcissa to attempt a Stunning curse or some other underhanded spell while Hermione's back was to her. But nothing of the sort happened, save that Hermione found herself holding her breath until she was safely outside. The door slammed shut behind her, but she had no way of knowing whether Narcissa had done so magically or whether the house-elf Withy, picking up on his mistress's mood, had obligingly slammed it for her.

No matter. Hermione had made it out of Malfoy Manor in one piece, and if she had little to show for her efforts, at least she could go back to Miles Cornish and let him know she had made the attempt. If he tried to send her back again, she'd definitely take Severus or several Aurors with her, as she guessed that Narcissa would be even less thrilled by a repeat visit. Obviously Hermione on her own was not enough to coerce Narcissa into any helpful revelations. Hermione supposed she should feel somewhat offended by this realization, but at the moment she was too relieved by her escape to worry over her apparent lack of intimidation skills. All she could hope now was that the small bits of information she had gleaned – that apparently both Lucius and Draco were either ill or some other way incapacitated – would be enough to satisfy Miles.

She knew the information certainly wasn't enough to satisfy her.

* * *

When she returned to the Ministry, however, it was to find Miles Cornish gone, apparently for the day. 

"Personal business," said Daphne Greengrass, the former Slytherin girl who also worked in the department and appeared to function as Miles's part-time assistant when she wasn't conducting her own investigations. She curled a strand of auburn hair around her forefinger, inspected it, then shrugged. "He disappears a few times a month – never says where he's going. Rupert and I think he's got a bit on the side," she added with a sly grin, naming the third investigator in their department. "Did you want to leave a message?"

"No," Hermione said, feeling annoyed and not a little disgusted. There was probably a perfectly rational explanation for wherever Miles might have gone without resorting to lurid speculations. And she supposed a manager wasn't obligated to tell his subordinates where he was going and what he was doing every second of the day. Still, it did bother her that he had sent her off on what could have been quite a dangerous mission without even waiting around to see how she had fared. "I'll see if I can speak with him in the morning."

"Right, then," Daphne replied, and picked up the copy of the_Prophet_ she had been reading. It appeared quite obvious that she planned to take advantage of Miles's absence by doing absolutely no work whatsoever.

If she weren't so new to the department, Hermione might have found herself compelled to make a pointed comment on the subject. But the last thing she needed right now was to make enemies, so she merely handed Daphne – who overall had been somewhat friendly, despite her Slytherin affiliation -- a very lackluster smile and returned to her own office.

The rest of the afternoon passed with the sort of excruciating slowness that only occurs when one wishes to be someplace else entirely. Hermione worked her way through one of her other cases – a witch in Bloomsbury had been Transfiguring mice into Persian cats and attempting to sell them to Muggles to earn extra income – but she had a difficult time concentrating. Her visit to Malfoy Manor had only deepened the mystery. If Lucius and Draco truly were ill, and if Narcissa was lying about their involvement in the Muggle attacks, how on earth could the two be connected? Surely men who were "indisposed," as Narcissa had put it, would be incapable of the sort of physical brutality their hapless neighbors had experienced.

At last five o'clock came. Hermione, who usually worked half-past the hour or even longer, pushed herself away from her desk and was out to the lifts before her coworkers had even donned their traveling cloaks. She knew she had to get back to Rosedell to check on Crookshanks, but after that she was heading straight to Yorkshire. Her father seemed to be doing well enough after refusing -- quite stubbornly, in Hermione's opinion -- to have any sort of healing magic performed on his leg. Of course she hadn't proposed such a thing whilst he was in the hospital, as that would have attracted a good deal of unwelcome attention, but she didn't see why he should have to suffer with a cast once he was safely away home. He had demurred, saying he could mend on his own just fine without any magical intervention. Both of her parents had always been like that, actually – proud of her accomplishments, but also quite happy to muddle along without her assistance. She'd never really understood their position, but she was forced to respect it.

So it was with a somewhat light heart that she departed Rosedell after giving Crookshanks a good scratching behind the ears and a large tin of tuna. He ignored her caresses, but not the food. Obviously her extended absence had put his nose out of joint. Hermione suffered a few pangs of guilt over his neglect, but they were not enough to stop her from escaping to Yorkshire.

The snow around Severus' cottage looked trampled and gray, the way snow always did after it had lain on the ground for a few days. An angry orange glow to the west was all that remained of the day, and Hermione pulled her cloak more tightly about her as she made her way to the front door. As usual, it swung open before she even had a chance to knock.

"Your parents let you off your chain, I see," Severus remarked, then stepped aside so she could enter the cottage.

"I wasn't on a chain," she retorted. "I was helping them out. I came as soon as I could."

"Of course." With a shrug, he shut the door and moved away from her, toward the dining area that functioned as his potions laboratory. Something sharp and green-smelling burbled away happily in a cauldron on the stovetop. Without speaking, he lifted a small beaker filled with pale, milky fluid and poured a precise ounce into the cauldron. At once the green smell became more muted, almost flowery, but with a dusty scent, like an ancient sachet that had lain forgotten in a dresser drawer for many years.

"What is that?" Hermione asked. The odor was unfamiliar; she could not recall having ever encountered it in the Potions classroom.

"An experiment," Severus replied, but he did not appear eager to share any more information than that.

_Everyone with their secrets_, she thought in some irritation, but she did not press the point. Too many days had passed since she had last been with Severus – the last thing she wanted was for them to start bickering within two minutes of seeing one another.

"Well, at least you've been keeping busy, I see," she said.

"I always do." He turned away from the stove and crossed his arms; today he once again wore the faded black jumper and dark Muggle pants he'd adopted as his alternate wardrobe. "As have you, apparently."

_More than you know_, Hermione thought. She was at a loss as to the best way to approach the Malfoy situation without revealing she had gone to their estate alone. Somehow she had the distinct impression Severus would be less than pleased upon receiving that particular bit of news. Perhaps an oblique approach would be best. So she removed her heavy travelling cloak and draped it over the back of one of the dining room chairs, then asked in diffident tones, "Do you know of any illness that would cause the sorts of attacks being reported in Wiltshire?"

His eyes narrowed. "Illness? What would make you think that?"

"Just – just a notion I had."

It was a poor lie, and Hermione regretted it almost the second it left her mouth. At once Severus' black stare focused on her, and she could almost feel his mind forcing itself against hers, laying bare that which she'd hoped to keep secret. Harry had spoken very little to her of Occlumency, and so she'd had no practice in mustering a defense. She tried to think of everything but the Malfoy case or her visit there this morning, but it seemed the harder she tried not to think about it, the more prominent in her mind it became.

After a few seconds of struggle that felt more like several centuries, she could almost feel the pressure of his mind lift from hers. But her relief was short-lived, for at once Severus demanded, "You went to Malfoy Manor alone? Do you have any idea how foolish that was?"

Hermione could think of several angry retorts she would like to make, but she decided it would be unwise to use any of them. Besides, underneath her indignation that he would use Legilimency to wrest the truth from her mind was the uneasy realization he had every right to be so angry with her. Instead she said, in what she hoped was a reasonable manner, "It wasn't as if I had much of a choice, Severus. Miles Cornish all but commanded me to go."

"Miles Cornish!" he repeated, in tones of incredulous rage. "Why on earth would you trust the judgment of a mid-level functionary such as Miles Cornish?"

"Besides the fact that he's my supervisor?"

Severus waved an angry hand, as if to brush away such specious arguments. "I don't care if he's the Minister of Magic himself – he had no right to send you into such a dangerous situation alone."

"It wasn't that dangerous, Severus – absolutely nothing happened. Probably the worst of it was Narcissa Malfoy calling me a Mudblood. Really, you'd think they'd come up with some more interesting epithets by now."

His mouth thinned. "If that is your way of making light of the situation, I find nothing remotely amusing about it."

"Why does that not surprise me?" Hermione crossed her arms and matched him glare for glare. "And am I to suppose Professor Dumbledore never asked you to do anything dangerous?"

"That was different," Severus replied, and his voice was so acid it might have melted through steel. "You cannot possibly be attempting to equate Miles Cornish with Albus Dumbledore!"

"Not really, besides the obvious – Dumbledore was your superior, just as Miles is mine." His expression did not change, and she went on, "What is it about Miles that you dislike so much?"

"Besides the fact that he sent you on a foolish, profitless mission?" He made an impatient gesture, although whether his frustration was with her or Miles Cornish, Hermione couldn't know for sure. "Cornish was appointed when Cornelius Fudge was in power. That should tell you something right there. He's a bureaucrat with no real experience, no knowledge of the Malfoys' true history. I suppose he told you that it was perfectly safe, that the Malfoys would never act against an official from the Ministry?"

Reluctantly, she nodded, and Severus' scowl only etched itself more deeply into his forehead. "The man is an idiot. He shouldn't be supervising his own desktop, let alone a department as important as yours."

"If I admit it was foolish, will you let it go?" Hermione asked, already weary of the argument. After all, the worst she had suffered in her encounter with Narcissa and Pansy was a bit of verbal abuse.

"Only if you promise never to do such a thing again, no matter what Miles Cornish might say. Would you risk your life over a mere job?"

Wounded that he would belittle her position in such a manner, Hermione retorted, "Working for the Ministry isn't a 'mere job.'"

"Oh, yes, I'm sure the world is much safer now that you've tracked down all those underage wizards casting Bat-Bogey Hexes and brewing love potions outside of Hogwarts," sneered Severus.

Oh, how did he know exactly the right thing to say that made her want to reach out and smack him across the jaw for daring to condescend to her in such a manner? Hermione clenched her fists in her robes and choked back the angry reply that danced on the tip of her tongue. She would not use words as weapons the way Severus did. Too often things were said in the heat of the moment that were regretted for months and years afterward. Besides, past her own anger she thought she began to see the reason for Severus' fury. After all, would he be so upset with her if he weren't concerned about her fate?

"Perhaps it is," she said quietly. "But that's not really why you're angry, is it?"

For a moment he just stood there, staring down at her. The black eyes looked opaque, almost expressionless in the dim light of the few candles burning in the chamber. But then she saw him swallow, and he shook his head. Something about the bleak lines of his countenance made Hermione want to go to him, to reach out and touch his face, to offer whatever comfort she could. She waited, however, to hear what he would say. He needed to learn he need not worry about unburdening himself to her – that she should not be kept outside the barrier he'd erected around his heart so many years ago.

At last he said, in a voice so low she had to strain to hear the words, "I have lost too many people as it is. I would not wish to face losing you as well."

It was what she had suspected, but still Hermione felt a rush of joy at this revelation. Then she did step toward him, just as he moved toward her as well. His arms went around her, and she pressed herself against him, laying her head against his chest so she could hear the strong beating of his heart. Something brushed against the top of her head – his mouth, laying a kiss there so gentle it was hard to believe it could have come from Severus Snape.

"You won't lose me," she said. "You won't. I'm sorry, Severus. It was a foolish thing to do, even if I was just doing what my supervisor asked me to do."

"Foolish and reckless," he concurred, and he shifted so that they were once again standing face to face. "And nothing you should ever do again. Agreed?"

"Agreed," Hermione replied, in tones so uncharacteristically meek that Severus actually smiled.

"We shall see how long this resolve holds up – I have the feeling you would go charging headlong into a situation without concern for your own well-being if you felt you were somehow doing good by acting in such a way. Still, I will take your word for now, and bargain for your safety once again in the future if circumstances warrant it." His expression sobered, and he asked, "So in your visit to Malfoy Manor, you saw no sign of either Lucius or Draco?"

"None," she said, relieved he was willing to discuss the situation without any further recriminations. "Narcissa said they were indisposed, which is a polite term that can mean anything from laid up with gout to vomiting slugs, I suppose." Despite herself, Hermione grinned a little. The mental image of Lucius Malfoy with a gouty leg or Draco helplessly throwing up slugs as poor Ron had so long ago cheered her perversely, even though she had the feeling that whatever ailed them was orders of magnitude more serious. "And Pansy was acting awfully odd. Nervous, almost hysterical. It was very unlike her." That was an understatement – Pansy had always been queen to Draco's king in their little Slytherin demesne, ironic and self-assured and sometimes downright rude, but never edgy or tense.

"It does sound unlike her," Severus mused, and Hermione gave him a surprised look, then realized of course he would probably know Pansy much better than Hermione did, seeing as Pansy had been a student when he was Head of Slytherin House.

"So this leads back to my previous question," Hermione said. "What sort of illness could they be suffering that would possibly be connected to the attacks on those Muggles?"

Again Severus hesitated, and although Hermione watched him carefully, she should have known that he would betray very little through his expression if he did not wish to. "I don't believe I can speak to that question at the moment."

"Which is just a roundabout way of saying you do have an idea, but you don't want to tell me what it is," Hermione remarked. "Really, Severus, what could be so terrible that you won't just tell me? Why all the secrecy?"

"Because I don't have all the facts in this situation – or any of them, for that matter," he replied. The reproachful look he gave her was so similar to the disapproving glares he used to turn on hapless first years in Potions class that she almost smiled. "You of all people should know the foolishness of jumping to conclusions before enough data has been gathered."

"True," Hermione said. "So what next?"

"We need more information on the specifics of this 'illness' the Malfoys are suffering. Not," he added, after sending another forbidding glare in her direction, "by making a return trip to Malfoy Manor. You've already shown that to be a profitless endeavor – as I could have told you, if you had bothered to consult with me before you went there."

Hermione opened her mouth to protest, then realized defending her actions was a foolish use of time at this point. After all, Severus was right – she hadn't very much to show for her risky trip to the Malfoy estate. "But if I can't go back there to attempt to speak with them once again, what should I do?"

"Haven't you already seen the younger Mrs. Malfoy in London several times already?" he inquired. "Knowing this, would it not be reasonable to expect she might return in the near future? Perhaps less time wandering about Wiltshire and more time waiting in Diagon Alley so that you can speak to her alone would be a better use of your resources. If her mental state is truly as you have described it, then it does appear that she is the weak link in the Malfoy chain. Perhaps the correct amount of pressure – judiciously applied, of course – is all that's required for her to unburden herself."

His words made sense. After all, it was true that Pansy did seem to travel to London on a fairly regular basis, and it was also true that she should be a much easier nut to crack than Narcissa. Hermione nodded. "And if I can get further information from her, then will you tell me of your suspicions?"

"Of course," he said at once, to Hermione's relief. At least his reply indicated that he only held back now because he felt his hunch did not have the factual backing to support it, not that he didn't trust her enough to confide in her.

"Then I'll have to be satisfied with that for now," she replied.

"Excellent. Now can we devote our time to more important things?"

"Such as?" Hermione asked, but of course she knew what he meant.

Severus didn't bother to answer. He merely reached out to her once more, drawing her close, this time covering her mouth with his so there was no need for further speech, no need for anything but the touch and taste and scent of him, filling her world, filling her mind and her senses, so that all she could hope for was that it would always be this way, always Severus and her, without doubt, without worry, without anything but the sweet sensation of his arms around her, his lips pressed against hers, the mad pounding of her own heart and the thrum of the blood within her veins. Only the two of them, and the world so far away.

Even as she lost herself in that endless embrace, however, Hermione knew it could not last forever….


	16. Truth or Dare

Sorry it took me almost two weeks to update -- blame it on Christmas (I know I did). Happy New Year to everyone, and thank you once again for all your wonderful reviews!

* * *

Sixteen: Truth or Dare

The next morning Hermione barely paused to take off her traveling cloak and drop her satchel next to her desk before she marched over to Miles Cornish's office. He was in, but barely – he was still hanging his own cloak from a rack in the corner when she stopped in the doorway and said, "Miles?"

He started a little, then turned and smiled. "Good morning, Hermione."

Not bothering with a pleasantry in return, Hermione went on, "I visited Malfoy Manor yesterday morning, as you instructed."

The agreeable, noncommittal expression never changed. "And?" he said, as he sat down at his desk and pulled out a somewhat stained bone china mug covered in a floral pattern so pink and cloying Hermione wondered whether he had stolen it from Dolores Umbridge. As she watched, he poured some water into it from a pitcher that sat on the low filing cabinet behind him. He waved his wand over the mug, and immediately steam begin to rise from its contents. Finally, he produced a tea bag from his top desk drawer and dropped it into the boiling water.

Hermione felt compelled to wait until he had completed this procedure before she replied. "Narcissa Malfoy says she has no idea what's going on with these attacks, and told me neither Lucius nor Draco could have anything to do with them, as they're both currently indisposed."

"Well, then," said Miles, after he had paused to swirl the tea bag through the hot water in his mug. "I suppose that will have to do."

"What?" Hermione burst out, before she could stop herself. Miles turned a mildly reproving look on her, and she made herself count, not to ten, but at least a good sturdy five, before she continued, "That is, surely you're not just going to take Narcissa Malfoy's word on the matter?"

"Why shouldn't I?"

"Because – because she's lying, sir!"

At that bald-faced statement, Miles did frown the slightest bit. "That's quite a charge to level at an upstanding member of the wizarding community."

_Upstanding member of the –_ Had Miles gone completely mad? How could he possibly be referring to Narcissa Malfoy in such a manner? "Miles, surely you can't have forgotten that Mrs. Malfoy is married to a known Death Eater, that she has been implicated in a number of highly questionable activities, that – "

"I have not forgotten. I have also not forgotten that Harry Potter has vouched for her and has in fact clearly stated that he would be dead were it not for the actions of Narcissa Malfoy. Certainly she has done nothing over the past five years to indicate anything except that she leads a quiet, blameless life. If she says her husband and son are not involved in these attacks on Muggles, then we must take her at her word."

This speech was delivered in a calm, matter-of-fact tone that appeared to allow no further argument. For a few seconds Hermione could only stare down at her supervisor, feeling absolutely flummoxed. How on earth could he be so dismissive of Narcissa Malfoy's past? What was the point in Miles sending her to Malfoy Manor if he was only going to dismiss her findings out of hand?

Hermione knew she must choose her next words with care. "Miles, I understand this is a delicate matter, but surely further questioning is warranted. Mrs. Malfoy didn't deal very well with me, but perhaps if you sent someone she could better relate to, perhaps someone such as Daphne, who was also in Slytherin – "

"Still playing the House card, Hermione?" Miles inquired, then shook his head. "Perhaps you're the one who should be trying to put behind old prejudices. These school-day affiliations really have no bearing in the lives of grown-up wizards and witches."

_Oh, they don't, do they?_ Hermione thought. _I'll tell that to all the Slytherins of my close personal acquaintance. Oh, wait – I don't have any...except Severus, of course, but somehow that doesn't seem the same._ Perhaps it was simply because Severus had never been a schoolmate, but a professor, and that put them on an entirely different footing.

People could preach House unity all they wanted, or say that one's House connections didn't matter once a wizard or witch was out in the real world, but Hermione knew for a fact that those loyalties and affiliations continued long after a student graduated from Hogwarts. She had some Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw friends. However, they were significantly outnumbered by the Gryffindors of her acquaintance, and she had no Slytherin friends at all. Oh, of course she could have a civil working with relationship with someone who had been in Slytherin, such as Daphne Greengrass, but Hermione was fairly certain Daphne wasn't going to invite her out for a drink after work or ask her to go shopping in Diagon Alley. Perhaps things would slowly begin to change; with Voldemort gone, some of the stigma associated with Slytherin had begun to fade away. But so far Hermione hadn't seen much of a shift in the strict divisions along House lines that had their genesis in Hogwarts' Sorting system.

"If you say so, Miles," Hermione replied, after a pause she hoped wasn't too noticeable. Although she had begun the morning bursting with energy, ready to present her supervisor with the results of her meeting with Narcissa Malfoy and forge on to the next step of the investigation, now Hermione only felt an odd weariness wash over her. It seemed all too apparent – for whatever reason – Miles would not entertain the notion that Narcissa might be involved in any duplicity. Very well. It didn't mean Hermione would drop the case, only that she would have to continue her investigations on the sly. "I just wanted to make sure we explored every possibility regarding these attacks."

Miles smiled and sipped at his tea. "As well you should, Hermione. I expect no less of you. However, it appears clear to me that the Malfoys are blameless in this matter. Perhaps what we are dealing with here is simply an odd cluster of unrelated mishaps."

_Mishaps?_ thought Hermione. _I doubt Mr. Morris would call his encounter with an invisible monster a "mishap."_ She realized it wouldn't do any good to point out such a thing to Miles, however. He had obviously made up his mind, and would only call Mr. Morris's account flawed, the product of an overactive imagination that had merely mistaken a set of ordinary circumstances for something supernatural.

"Perhaps," she allowed, then produced a slightly rueful smile of her own. "I suppose I'd better get on to my next case, then."

"Capital," beamed Miles, who then returned to his tea, apparently dismissing her.

Knowing there was nothing more she could say, Hermione went back to her office, thoughts chasing furiously after one another. Miles could say what he liked, but she knew something terribly wrong was going on at Malfoy Manor. He hadn't been there – he hadn't seen the brittle expression on Narcissa's face, nor heard the note of near-panic in Pansy's voice. Could he really be that obtuse, or was he hiding something? Daphne's offhand, catty comment about Miles having a bit on the side jumped with sudden force to the forefront of Hermione's thoughts. Was something going on between Miles and Narcissa?

Almost at once Hermione discarded that notion as patently ridiculous. If Narcissa -- who had always appeared fiercely loyal to her husband and son, no matter what her other character faults might be – were being unfaithful, surely she wouldn't do so with someone as plain and mild and beige as Miles. Then again, stranger things had been known to happen. And if that were the case, wouldn't Miles want to make sure Narcissa appeared blameless in the matter of these attacks?

_Then why would he send me out there in the first place?_ Hermione wondered, as she settled herself back at her desk and picked up a file from the stack on her desk. _What on earth would such a thing prove?_

The answer came almost at once. _It would show that an independent, unbiased investigator went to Malfoy Manor and found nothing,_ she thought. _It would be enough evidence to show the department conducted an inquiry -- an inquiry which uncovered nothing untoward. No one is going to dig too deeply into a case that only involves Muggles, after all, no matter how much the Ministry might claim otherwise. Especially when what we're dealing with is minor injuries – inconvenient ones, of course, but there have been no deaths, and no one has suffered anything worse than a broken bone._

Frowning, Hermione picked up a quill, but her mind was far away from the file that lay before her on her desk, a simple case of unlicensed Apparition. The wizard involved, who was of age but who had never formally passed his Apparition exams, would most likely get off with a warning and a small fine. It was certainly not the sort of case to engage much of her mental capacity. Not when the ever-deepening mystery at Malfoy Manor continued to gnaw away at her thoughts.

More than ever she wished Severus could be with her. How much simpler all this would be if they could share their lives without complication. Somehow Hermione doubted he would ever accept a post at the Ministry – his scorn of that institution and its agents had been made clear on more than one occasion – but even if he were in town she would be able to see him much more frequently, to have the benefit of his keen mind and insights into the wizarding world.

_That's very selfless_, she told herself, with a mental laugh._Why not admit you just want to hear the sound of his voice, and perhaps indulge in a bit of midday snogging?_

Well, that was true enough, but her physical reactions to Severus Snape, thrilling as they might be, did not preclude an appreciation for his intellect and the knowledge and wisdom he had gained over the years. Rather, the two were somehow tied together, her physical desire for him only matched by her need to be in his presence, to spar with him verbally, knowing finally she had met her match.

These pleasant ruminations were interrupted by the arrival of Harry, who appeared out of nowhere to stand in the doorway of her office, his face a thundercloud.

"We need to talk," he said, and shut the door behind him.

His precipitous arrival seemed the capper to a perfect morning. Whatever he was about, it couldn't be good – the expression he wore was usually a preamble to the sort of emotional pyrotechnics Hermione knew she was definitely not in the mood for today.

But she closed the file and laid down her quill, then asked, "What is it, Harry?"

"Are you going to tell me where it is you've been disappearing to lately?"

Her stomach felt as if it had dropped a few feet. Hermione swallowed, all sorts of terrible conjectures dancing through her head. Still, she manage to inquire – quite calmly, she thought, "Disappearing?"

Harry crossed his arms and gave her an icy green glare from behind his spectacles. "Yes, disappearing – and I'm not talking about going for walks in the woods and rubbish like that."

"Well, yesterday morning I went out to Malfoy Manor," Hermione replied. "And before you get on me about that, I'll have you know the trip was entirely uneventful, and I wouldn't have even gone in the first place if Miles hadn't ordered me to."

The glare did not appear to lessen noticeably. "I heard about that particular stunt, but since you seem a little defensive about it, we'll let that go for now. No, I'm talking about where you were right after work yesterday evening…or last Friday night. And of course there was the time when Ginny was in labor and you were nowhere to be found."

Oh, good grief. Had he been following her, for God's sake? Or keeping track of her somehow by her Apparitions? She knew such a thing wasn't entirely unheard of, but the Ministry certainly had better things to do than keep a record of every Apparition and Disapparition in England. It would be like the Muggle Driver and Vehicle Licensing Agency maintaining a register of the whereabouts of every licensed driver in England at every moment. Perhaps not completely out of the realm of possibility, but certainly not very likely. Even the case she had been working on, which involved unlicensed Apparition, would not have come to the Ministry's attention had it not been for the fact that the perpetrator in question was already on his neighbors' bad side due to a number of smelly -- but legal -- potions experiments.

"You know, Harry," Hermione remarked, "one would think with a newborn son at home you'd have better things to do with your time than play amateur detective with me." She did not bother to keep the scorn out of her voice; her association with Severus had taught her some well-placed irony could be a useful tool.

But her sarcastic tone appeared to have little effect. Harry shot back, "And one would think a widow of six months would be doing something besides running around on the sly. I know you're seeing someone – Ginny admitted as much to me only yesterday. So who is it?"

_Damn Ginny_, thought Hermione, but she couldn't allow her anger to get the better of her, especially since she guessed that Ginny had perhaps made a speculative comment on the situation at the most, and Harry, being who he was, had run with it. Not trusting herself to speak, Hermione crossed her arms and looked away.

Her silence only seemed to infuriate Harry further. "And if you won't tell me, I'll go to Yorkshire and find out for myself. Oh, yes," he added, as he saw her startle at that revelation, "I know where you've been going. I just thought I'd give you a chance to explain yourself before I went there to find out for myself."

"You can't!" Hermione exclaimed. Good God – she couldn't begin to imagine the scene if Harry popped in on Severus out of the blue. Or rather, she probably _could_ imagine it – she just didn't want to. "Don't you dare – it's none of your business!"

"None of my business? Ron was my best friend – I should think it's bloody well my business. How do you think he'd feel, knowing you'd gone off and found somebody else barely six months after he died?"

Hermione felt her own eyes begin to blaze. "I didn't think there was a particular timetable for these sorts of things. Sorry – I'll make sure I consult you next time."

"So you admit you have been seeing someone."

"I don't have to 'admit' anything," she retorted. "I'm not on trial here. It's not as if I've committed a crime. For God's sake, Harry – Ron was my friend as well as my husband. I don't need you lecturing me about how he would feel." _And how_ would_ he feel?_ she thought then. _I'd like to think he'd understand I'd have to move on at some point, but somehow I have the feeling he wouldn't be very approving of my choice. Then again, would anybody?_

Harry crossed his arms, a scowl eerily reminiscent of one of Severus' creasing his forehead. "So you're not going to tell me?"

"What would that do?" Hermione asked. She didn't bother to keep the weary skepticism out of her voice. "No matter who I might be with, you're certain to find something wrong with him."

"That's not necessarily true," Harry countered. "There are some people I wouldn't mind seeing you with – Neville, for example, or even Ernie or Seamus."

Hermione let out an inelegant snort. "Oh, right, because they've all shown such an interest in me before this. Never mind that I'm not at all interested in any of them!"

"Is it Krum, then? He seemed pretty keen to renew his acquaintance with you back at Bill and Fleur's wedding – maybe he thought he'd get a second chance with Ron out of the way."

After this last statement Hermione knew Harry would never let it go. It was obvious to her that he was perfectly willing to stand there and play 20 Questions in regards to her mystery suitor for as long as it took. Forty questions? Fifty questions? The number really didn't matter, she supposed. She knew she should keep silent. Her revelation of their relationship would affect Severus as much as it did her – more, possibly. But he was far away, and Harry was right here, right now. And the burden of her secret felt so heavy. Surely the aftermath couldn't be any worse than this horrible secrecy? Wasn't she an independent adult? Harry had no more right to pass judgment on her love life than she did on his.

"I'll tell you," she said, the words coming with painful slowness, as if Harry were somehow pulling them out of her one by one via some unknown spell of compulsion. "But only if you promise you won't say anything to anyone else…only if you swear you won't blow up at me, no matter who it is."

"Christ, Hermione, how bad could it be?" asked Harry. Then he frowned. "It's not that Muggle George saw you with, is it?"

"No, it isn't. You haven't promised you won't say anything, or do anything rash."

He waved a hand. "All right, I promise. I won't do anything rash." His frown deepened. "Not someone from Slytherin, is it? I wouldn't put it past Blaise, or maybe Theodore Nott."

"No, of course not!" Hermione snapped. His willful persistence grew more infuriating by the moment. "If you must know, it's Severus Snape."

Immediately following this pronouncement, Harry's face went white. Then a flush of angry red rose up in his cheeks, even as he gave a very forced laugh and replied, "Oh, that's a good one, Hermione. Why don't you just tell me the truth?"

Trust Harry to accuse her of making a bad joke, just when she'd finally screwed up the nerve to tell him the truth of the situation. "That is the truth, Harry. It's certainly nothing I planned, but…there it is."

For a few seconds he just stared at her, disbelief written clearly on his features. The disbelief was followed by a look of revulsion so profound Hermione wished she could take the words back. But done was done, and she knew she would stand her ground on this. Severus was worth it.

"How could you?" Harry demanded at last. "He's -- he's_ Snape_! He's old enough to be your father!"

"Actually, my father is fifty-one, almost ten years older than Severus," Hermione replied, in tones that sounded prim even to herself.

"What difference does that make? Snape is still at least twenty years older than you, and he's -- he's -- " Words appeared to fail Harry as he glared down at her, anger and disgust and incredulity all warring in his face. Disgust appeared to win out, as he added, "How you could even think of letting that slimy Slytherin -- "

"That is quite enough, Harry!" she snapped. Oh, she'd known he would take the news badly, but she wasn't about to sit there and let him insult Severus in such a way. "For your information, I didn't 'let' him do anything -- I'm quite capable of making my own decisions and taking responsibility for my own actions, thank you very much. Whatever you may think, Severus is an honorable man."

"Oh, very honorable," Harry sneered. "Taking advantage of a girl twenty years younger than he is!"

Of course Harry would see the situation in that light. Fighting the impulse to hit him with an Impedimenta curse so he would stay still and bloody well listen to her, Hermione replied, "I am not a girl -- I am a grown woman and a widow, as you're so fond of reminding me. I am certainly capable of managing my own affairs. And if Severus is the person I've chosen to be with, neither you nor anyone else has the right to tell me it's wrong."

"I may not have the right, but I'm going to tell you anyway! God, Hermione, have you forgotten the way he treated me, the way he sneered at you? How could you have ever found yourself in a situation where something like this sounded like a good idea?"

_He'll never understand_, Hermione thought miserably. _He'll just condemn me and condemn Severus because of what happened in the past. How can I ever convince him that people can and do change, and in some strange way Severus and I make far more sense than Ron and I ever did?_ It seemed an impossible task. Perhaps now wasn't the time to make the attempt -- the shock was too new, too fresh. But she had to do something to stop the tirade.

She lifted her chin and met Harry's outraged glare with a level, calm look of her own. "Harry, I respected you enough to tell you the truth. All I ask now is that you respect me enough to stop with the insults. I don't have to explain myself to you. I'm sorry you're so upset about this. But nothing you do or say is going to change the situation."

His hands were knotted into the heavy, dark material of his robes, knuckles showing white as his fists clenched against the fabric. Hermione had the uneasy feeling that Harry very much wished those same hands might be wrapped around Severus Snape's neck. Finally he said, in tones of choked fury that did not bode well for their future friendship, "We'll just have to see about that." Then he turned and opened the door, stalked out of her office, and slammed the door shut behind him with such force that a stack of books on top of one of her shelves toppled over, spilling several volumes on the floor.

For a moment Hermione sat very still at her desk, staring at the doorway through which Harry had just exited. Her heart beat a painful staccato in her breast, and when she set her hands down on her desktop, she realized they were shaking. She tried to tell herself that eventually he would come around. And he did promise he wouldn't do anything rash -- however angry she might be with Harry right now, or he with her, she had to believe he would let it alone for now. He might tell Ginny, but Ginny, even if she might be shocked herself, would tell him he needed to back off and let Hermione live her life. Oh, it would be difficult, but at some point Harry would just have to come to terms with the situation. They had been friends for too long for him to throw their entire shared past away simply because he didn't approve of her choice of lovers. Sooner or later he would have to resign himself to Snape being in her life.

She didn't want to think about what might happen if he didn't.

* * *

Her nerves continued in their rattled state for the rest of the day. At first she fretted that Harry might run off to confront Severus in Yorkshire, despite his promise. At least Severus' cottage was warded by anti-Apparition spells, so even if Harry did the unthinkable, Severus would have some warning. Briefly Hermione considered going to Miles and telling him that she was ill and needed to knock off for the remainder of the her shift. But as much as the confrontation with Harry had shaken her, she didn't want to take the coward's way out. No, she would stay in this office and do the work she was being paid for, even if half the time she had to stop and reread a paragraph in a report two or three times to make heads or tails of its contents. Daphne Greengrass had shot a quizzical, half-sly look in her direction as Hermione stepped out at lunch to send a Patronus warning to Severus that he should be on his guard, and she wondered how much Daphne had heard. Not too much, Hermione decided; the door to her office was fairly thick. But of course Daphne had to have seen Harry storming away, and it wouldn't exactly take a genius to conjecture that he and Hermione were on the outs over something. 

Still, it was with a decided sense of relief that Hermione left the office. Daphne was nowhere in sight. Probably she'd gone home early. Miles didn't seem overly concerned about the people in his department adhering to Ministry hours; Hermione was the only one who followed them with any regularity. So she was able to make her way to the lifts and up to the street level without having to face Daphne or anyone else who might have known Harry Potter and Hermione Granger-Weasley were quarrelling over something dire.

She had intended to run by Diagon Alley to pick up a few potions supplies for Severus, as she'd noticed on her last visit that he seemed to be running low on belladonna and hellebore. Of course he would never ask for these things himself, but she thought it might be nice to surprise him with a few of the staples he required. And unlike the Ashwinder eggs, unicorn horns, and Jobberknoll feathers she had bought him for his birthday, they wouldn't incur the sort of expense that might cause him to protest their purchase. Now, however, she wanted to just flee to Yorkshire, although the thought of Apparating there filled her with misgivings. What if Harry had continued to track her comings and goings and decided in a fit of anger to follow her there and have it out with Severus, despite his promise? The confrontation in her office had been bad enough; she didn't want to think what might happen if Harry tried to force the issue here and now. At least going to Diagon Alley would give her some time to think what she should do next. Probably it would have to be travel by broomstick. She'd never much cared for that mode of transport, lacking both Ron's and Harry's natural proficiency for handling a broom, but if necessary she would pick up Ron's old Cleansweep Eleven, which he had deeded to her after he upgraded to a Firebolt, and get to Yorkshire that way. Besides, there was always the foolish hope that Severus would accept the supplies as a sort of peace offering for her foolishness in revealing their secret to Harry.

Having decided on that course of action, Hermione headed over to Diagon Alley. At least she knew exactly what she needed, so her stop at the Apothecary's shouldn't take very long. Then she could return to Rosedell, change into warmer clothing more suited for broomstick travel, and go on to Yorkshire. Even if the weather turned nasty -- which something about the feel of the wind told her it might -- she still should be able to reach Dunhollow within about two hours.

The Apothecary's turned out to be deserted, so she was able to fill her order quickly enough, despite the proprietor's attempts at supplementing her meager purchases with a number of more costly items. Hermione resisted these blatant attempts at an up sell, however, and emerged five minutes later, clutching a small parcel. She had just taken a few steps in the direction of the Leaky Cauldron and the exit to Charing Cross Road when she was stopped by a harsh whisper.

"Hermione!"

Startled, she turned. Off to one side, huddled up against the building, stood a slender figure muffled in a voluminous cloak, its hood pulled low to conceal the wearer's face. At once Hermione's free hand went to her wand, even though she doubted an enemy would have bothered to address her by name, or would have accosted her in quite so public a place as Diagon Alley.

"What do you want?" she replied, in a voice that, thankfully, sounded firm and calm and as though she were used to being confronted by hooded strangers every day of the week.

The strange figure stepped forward, then gave a furtive glance around. Other than the two of them, the area just outside the Apothecary's was deserted. It seemed most of Diagon Alley's patrons had headed indoors in search of warmer pastimes. The person still hesitated, then reached up and pushed back the hood to reveal Pansy Parkinson's pale, pinched features.

"I need to talk to you," Pansy said.


	17. The Fatal Flaw

Well, Harry was a bit of a twit in the last chapter, wasn't he? I suppose every story has to have its antagonist, and Harry is it in this one, unfortunately (or fortunately, I suppose, depending on how you see it). There are some answers in this chapter -- I hope you find them interesting! Thank you to everyone for your wonderful reviews!

* * *

Seventeen: The Fatal Flaw

"Of course we can talk," Hermione replied at once, although her mind fairly reeled at the thought that Pansy Parkinson had come to seek her out. Coupled with the astonishment was an underlying sense of unease, however. As much as she wanted to hear what Pansy had to say, Hermione couldn't help wondering what this unexpected delay might mean to Severus. Her mind at once began to manufacture a variety of worst-case scenarios where Harry burst in on Severus in Yorkshire or Severus sent her a Howler telling her what an utter prat she had been to confide in Harry in the first place. Resolutely she stomped out those thoughts the way one might tread on a spark to keep a blaze from spreading. Pansy was here, requesting a meeting, and Hermione knew she would be a fool if she did or said anything which might prevent that from occurring.

She put on an encouraging smile and added, "Do you want to step inside the Leaky Cauldron? It would be much warmer."

Pansy cast a wary glance in the direction of the pub. "It's so public – "

"Never mind about that," Hermione replied. "A combination of a Disillusionment Charm and a Muffliato spell should keep anyone from seeing you or from overhearing our conversation."

"A what spell?" Pansy asked, her tone suspicious. "I've never heard of that one."

"It'll cover up our conversation. Anyone in the vicinity won't hear anything but the background hum of the people talking around them."

This explanation seemed to mollify Pansy; she nodded, then slipped her hood up over her head once more. Hermione took this as a sign that she should proceed with casting the Disillusionment Charm, so she pulled out her wand and murmured the words of the spell. At once Pansy seemed to disappear, although if Hermione squinted hard enough in the right direction she could still make out the shimmering outlines of the other woman, almost as if her form had been transformed into moving water. Still, within the dimly lit confines of the Leaky Cauldron's public room, Pansy would be effectively invisible.

The pub was fairly crowded, but Hermione spied an empty table off in a dark corner. Perfect. She headed in that direction, hoping Pansy would have the sense to follow. After all, Hermione couldn't turn around to see if she were accompanied; she had to pretend she was here alone.

She settled down into the chair, leaving the booth against the wall for Pansy. A chair being pulled out from the table apparently on its own would no doubt attract unwanted attention. Hermione fancied she heard a faint creak from the seemingly empty booth opposite her, and guessed that Pansy had just seated herself.

"_Muffliato!_" Hermione whispered, and then said, in a more normal voice, "It's all right to talk now. No one will hear us."

"That's a neat one," Pansy said, her voice still pitched somewhat low, as if she didn't quite trust the unknown spell. "But I suppose you always were counted as clever."

This last statement was made in a half-grudging tone, as if Pansy wasn't quite sure she believed in Hermione's cleverness. Hermione felt a stir of irritation, but now was certainly not the time to be renewing schoolgirl feuds. "I suppose," she replied, in an offhand manner, as if to show Pansy such things were of no real import. "I'm glad you came to see me, Pansy. What did you want to talk to me about?"

A long pause, followed by something that sounded like a half-muffled sob. "You said you would help us."

"I can try," Hermione said. "But I have to know what's really going on with Draco and his father. This secrecy is helping no one."

"I tried to tell Narcissa that. I tried to tell her it was doing no good to cover things up. But she kept telling me that it couldn't get out, that the family would be disgraced, and I should keep my mouth shut, as I was a Malfoy now and I had just as much to lose as the rest of them."

_Disgraced?_ Hermione thought. _How could being ill possibly be a disgrace? Unless_, she added with a mental grin, _Lucius and Draco have somehow acquired what Muggles politely refer to as a "social disease."_ She kept these speculations to herself, however, and said gently, "Perhaps you should start at the beginning."

Another faint creak, as perhaps the unseen Pansy shifted her weight on the wooden seat. "It started with Lucius. He never really got over his loss of status after the War ended. Most of the Malfoy fortune is still intact, I suppose, but no one can deny that the Malfoy name was…tarnished."

That was probably an understatement, but Hermione supposed it had taken Pansy a supreme effort of will to admit even that much. She nodded, then jumped a little as Tom, the Leaky Cauldron's owner, came over to take her order. It felt a bit odd to order something for herself when she knew she couldn't get anything for Pansy, but Hermione also realized she'd have to give the pub some custom in order to keep her seat. She requested a butterbeer, then waited until Tom was safely away before asking, "So…would you say Lucius was depressed?"

"Not depressed. Angry. He hated that Professor Snape kept his real loyalties hidden all those years, that he had spied on the Dark -- He Who Must Not Be named and had fooled him and everyone else. And then Lucius became obsessed with Legilimency and Occlumency. It seemed he thought that learning those skills would give him something of an edge, or that at least he could regain some of his power in the wizarding world if he could tap into the thoughts of those around him."

"And did that help?" asked Hermione, although she had a suspicion she already knew the answer.

The sound of sigh emanated from the empty booth. "No. He forced Draco to practice with him, since of course you can't work either type of magic without someone's mind to read, or having someone attempt to read your own thoughts. Lucius found books somewhere, with exercises -- Draco never let me see inside them, but they looked old. Merlin knows where Lucius dug them up. Anyway, after a few weeks of that, the first…incident occurred."

Tom arrived with her butterbeer. Hermione thanked him and set it down on the table without drinking any of it. "What sort of incident?"

A long pause. Then Pansy murmured, "It was dreadful. Draco and I were in the downstairs sitting room, and suddenly there was this -- I don't know how to put it exactly, but I suppose you could call it a presence. Yes, an enormous presence in the room that rushed toward both of us. We were taken off-guard, and I was knocked to the floor before Draco was able to cast a Shield charm. Then Draco cast the charm, and you could feel the presence pushing against it, until it seemed to give up and rushed out of the room. Then Narcissa found us, and it seemed she'd had a go-'round with it as well -- her face was puffed, and one eye was already starting to turn black."

Well, that sounded quite similar to what Mr. Morris had described in regards to his own attack. "So what was it?"

Another silence, this time so long Hermione wondered if Pansy intended to reply at all. Then she said, in flat tones, "It was Lucius."

That didn't seem to make any sense. "How could it have been Lucius if this presence were invisible and so much larger than he is in real life?"

"It wasn't Lucius in his body. It was his mind -- " Pansy made an exasperated noise. "No, that's not right, either. It was as if all the anger, all the resentment that had been building up in him had burst forth to act as an independent entity."

"And how do you know this?"

"Narcissa told us…eventually. Of course, at first she tried to deny anything untoward had happened, and said that the marks on her face had occurred when she was taking down a box in her wardrobe. Silly, of course -- as if Narcissa couldn't have cast a Levitation Charm to keep the box from falling on her! But it took two more incidents to occur before she'd admit what had gone wrong with Lucius."

The whole thing sounded dreadful, and Hermione felt an unexpected stir of pity for Lucius Malfoy, something she'd never thought she would experience in her lifetime. "And what does Lucius have to say on the subject?"

"Nothing," Pansy said, and although Hermione couldn't see the other woman, she had the distinct impression that Pansy shuddered. "Whatever's gone wrong with him, it's destroyed his mind. Narcissa won't even let me see him now, but I did catch a glimpse a week or so ago, when Withy wasn't fast enough about shutting the door. He looks like a waxwork -- propped up against the pillows in his bed, staring straight ahead, but his eyes might as well be made of glass for all the life that's left in them." She made a choking sound, as if she were trying to force back a sob.

"And what of Draco?" asked Hermione, her voice gentler than she had ever thought it would be when addressing Pansy Parkinson.

"He's the only one who can control Lucius. But not always -- and the strain is getting to him, too. Sometimes he just can't block the entity, and it goes out and doesn't seem to stop until it's hurt someone. The problem is that I think it's starting to happen to Draco now." After making this statement, Pansy stopped, and this time she really did begin to sob, in a horrible ragged manner made all the more terrible because it was plain she had done everything in her power to keep from doing so.

Feeling awkward and embarrassed, Hermione could only sit and wait for Pansy to recover herself. After a minute or so the sobs began to subside, and Hermione said, "How do you know? Has there been a second entity?"

Pansy replied immediately, "No. But he has trouble sometimes remembering simple things, and he's become so weak he can't get out of bed, either. And yesterday he wouldn't even eat anything."

"I'm so very sorry, Pansy," Hermione said, and she meant it, too. No matter what she thought of Lucius and Draco Malfoy, she certainly wouldn't have wished such a fate upon them.

"That's all very well," Pansy retorted. "We don't need pity. We need help."

The brusque words did not upset Hermione. How could she take offense at Pansy's tone, when it was obvious the other woman was exhausted and distraught? "You said Narcissa told you the entity had come from Lucius. How could she be so certain?"

"She didn't want to tell me that. I kept pressing her, and she said she'd heard of instances of similar things happening in other families, but that had been so long ago she'd thought they must have been old wives' tales. Ob -- obviously not!" And Pansy disintegrated into a fresh bout of weeping.

If the breakdown Lucius -- and perhaps Draco -- was experiencing had occurred before, Hermione wondered that she had never heard or read anything of it. She'd thought she'd come across just about every malady wizard-kind could suffer at one point or another in her far-ranging research, but apparently not. _Perhaps Severus does know something_, she thought, a sudden excitement gripping her. _He all but hinted that he had a theory. If I go to him with this information, it could be the data he needed to support his hypothesis. Assuming he's still speaking to me, of course._

"I want to help, Pansy," Hermione said. She hoped the soothing tone of her voice would get through to Pansy even if the immediate meaning of her words might not. "In fact, I know someone who could prove to be invaluable in finding some sort of treatment for Lucius and Draco. I need to go speak with him. Do I have your permission to relate to him what you've told me now? In strictest confidence, of course -- I know he wouldn't share your secrets with anyone else."

A muffled sniffling came from the seemingly empty booth. "Yes, if you must. What could it hurt? I've tried everything else."

It wasn't the most enthusiastic of responses, but Hermione knew she couldn't expect much more. "Then I think it's best if I speak with him at once. And you should probably get back to Malfoy Manor. You wouldn't want Narcissa to become suspicious if you're away too long."

Pansy sniffed once more, then said, "True. I had better get back. I told Narcissa I was returning to the Apothecary's to see about the phoenix tears, but of course I knew they wouldn't have any in yet."

"Well, perhaps we can think of something which doesn't require the tears," Hermione replied. She fished in her robes for the pouch that contained her money, and dropped several Sickles down on the table next to the untouched mug of butterbeer. A slight squeak from the booth seemed to signal that Pansy had stood, so Hermione pulled her traveling cloak back on and made her way outside. Then she murmured, "_Finite incantatem!_"

Immediately Pansy shivered back into existence, her face now blotched and swollen from crying. As if realizing the effects of her breakdown were now visible, she pulled her hood back up over her head. "I won't be able to come to town for a few days. Can you meet me at Twilfit and Tatting's on Thursday at three? I have a new set of robes to pick up then."

Hermione wondered at Pansy spending her energy on something as frivolous as clothing when she was faced with such a monumental crisis in her personal life, but perhaps it was the only thing she could think of to keep herself occupied. At any rate, it wasn't Hermione's place to comment, and at least the errand would give Pansy an excuse to return to Diagon Alley. "Of course," Hermione replied. "That will give me some time to follow up on my research."

In response, Pansy nodded. Then she moved away from Hermione and, after taking a furtive look around to make sure they were still unobserved, Disapparated with a sharp _cr-aack!_ Hermione was left to stand there by alone, her thoughts a jumble. A few faint flakes began to drift down from the heavy sky, and she shook herself. She had to get moving and hope she would be able to outpace the storm on her broomstick. If she could manage to hang on for the two hundred-plus miles to Yorkshire, that was.

At the moment, she didn't know which would be worse -- falling off her broom, or facing Severus' fury once he realized she had confided in Harry.

* * *

Rosedell looked quiet and serene under a rising moon, the pathway to the front entrance still magically free of snow. Hermione unlocked the door and let herself in, then stopped dead at the sight of Severus, who rose from the sofa, laying aside a book as he did so.

"Sev -- Severus!" she exclaimed. "I didn't think -- that is, I didn't expect -- "

"Considering the cryptic message you sent me, I deemed it wisest to wait for you here." The line between his brows deepened. "However, I did not think I would be waiting for you quite this long."

"It was Pansy Malfoy. Severus, she actually came to see me. She told me what's wrong with Lucius and Draco." _And perhaps if we get embroiled in that discussion_, she thought, _we can leave the whole Harry fiasco aside for the moment_. Although she had never been one to avoid an unpleasant duty, still she did not look forward to that particular conversation.

"Indeed," said Severus, but he did not look overly impressed. "And as illuminating as I'm sure the discussion must have been, I am more interested in hearing why particularly you thought I should be on my guard…especially since I am always on my guard, as the wards surrounding my home would attest."

Of course he wouldn't let it go that easily. For a moment Hermione did not reply. Instead, she went to the hall closet and took off her traveling cloak, hanging it up on the sturdy wooden hanger she reserved for that purpose. After she was done with that particular task, she turned to Severus, who still regarded her with a frown creasing his forehead, the thin line of his mouth telling her he was not overly thrilled with her cryptic message or the possible reasons for it.

"Well," Hermione said, and she found that her mouth was dry, her throat tense and aching. "I know it was a foolish thing to do, but I was talking to Harry, and erm…I told him about us."

Silence then, as Severus continued to watch her with that cold black gaze which made her feel as if she were back in school and about to get called on the carpet for some transgression. At any moment she expected to hear him say, "Fifty points from Gryffindor for gross stupidity!"

But he did not. After a heavy pause, he inquired, "And why would you do that?"

A very good question, one for which she did not have a definitive answer. But at least he had not upbraided her or informed her of his opinion of such a foolish maneuver. Yet.

"He kept pressing me, Severus, asking question after question. And somehow he'd been tracking my Apparitions -- I don't know how, since it's a spell I've never heard of, but perhaps it's something you learn in Auror training, or -- "

"Nothing that complicated," Severus broke in. His voice sounded suspiciously silky, which Hermione had come to learn was not necessarily a good thing. "Have you ever been in the Minister of Magic's office?"

Wondering why that should matter, Hermione nodded.

"Then perhaps you might have noticed whilst you were there a map on the wall behind the Minister's desk, a map which shows the whereabouts of various Ministry officials? No doubt the esteemed Mr. Potter merely requested the opportunity to inspect it. Of course Kingsley Shacklebolt would have no reason to deny such a simple request, especially coming from the boy who defeated the Dark Lord." Severus smiled, a thin humorless grimace that was a mere baring of teeth. "Quite resourceful of Potter, I must say. I suppose we must be thankful that the map is not large enough to show a great deal of detail. I'll conjecture that he only gave you a general locale and not a specific address for your destination?"

"Yes, he only knew I had gone to Yorkshire," Hermione replied. Her stomach felt knotted and tight, and she still wondered when the explosion would come.

"Quite meddlesome of him," said Severus. "The boy should really learn to attend to his own affairs and keep his nose out of business which doesn't concern him. But I suppose you told him as much."

"Well, mostly. And that I was an adult and could manage my own affairs without his interference."

"No doubt he took that very well."

The sly note in Severus' voice told her of course he wasn't serious, and Hermione felt a faint glimmer of hope. Perhaps the dreaded outburst wouldn't come after all. "Erm…not really."

"Of course." Severus turned from her and moved toward the hearth; for the first time Hermione realized a fire burned there, dispelling the chill that would have normally greeted her upon her arrival at home after a long day. "In the future, perhaps it would be wise for you to consult me before you unburden yourself to your friends."

"I know," she said quietly. She crossed the living room so she could stand next to him in front of the fireplace. "But you didn't really think we could keep this a secret forever?"

"Perhaps. Perhaps not. There is no point in wasting time on conjecture, seeing as you have relieved me of the burden of worrying as to whether or not we would be found out. The question we must ask now is, what will Master Potter do with this new information?"

"I made him promise he wouldn't tell anyone."

A sardonic twist of Severus' mouth told her how much he thought of Harry's trustworthiness. "I see. Well, then, I must consider the matter closed."

On impulse, Hermione reached out and laid her hand on his arm. The wool of his worn frock coat felt rough beneath her fingertips, the arm beneath it hard and unyielding as the stones which made up the hearth. "Severus, I know you don't think much of Harry -- and I'm certainly angry with him now as well -- but I do know this about him. He's not one to break his word. If he promised me he wouldn't tell anyone else, he won't. At the very worst he might say something to Ginny, but I don't think he would even do that."

"How touching that you have survived this long and have still managed to retain your charming sense of naïveté." At least he did not attempt to remove her hand from his arm, but neither did he show any signs of reciprocating the caress. Eyes glittering, he continued, "At any rate, done is done. If Potter keeps his mouth shut, all the better, but if not, we will face that contingency when it arises. I have always known the possibility existed that one day the fact of my survival might be discovered, and that possibility only increased as my association with you wore on." Finally he turned toward her, and although he still wore the same grim expression, at least he reached out to take her cold hands in his. "I cannot fully understand the friendship you share with Harry Potter, but I also cannot deny that it exists. You spoke to him because of that friendship, but do not be too surprised if you see your friendship end because of your association with me."

Although Severus' hands were warm against hers, somehow Hermione's fingers felt like icicles. Surely that couldn't be true. As angry as Harry might be with her right now, eventually he would have to relent and come to some measure of acceptance of her relationship with Severus. No matter what he might say, Harry didn't completely hate Severus Snape. Hadn't Harry defended Severus, revealed to the Ministry the depth of the sacrifices the Potions master had made while in Dumbledore's service? Were those the actions of a man who found nothing good or redeeming about Severus Snape?

_Of course not_, Hermione reflected. _But that was before Harry realized his best friend was snogging the man in question. It's one thing to acquire a certain grudging respect for someone when he's safely dead and not around to make your life complicated, but it's another matter entirely when you're faced with the realization that that same dead man is very much alive and getting personal with the girl you think of as a sister._

When she thought of it that way, she felt a stir of half-hearted sympathy for Harry's situation. Still, he could have attempted to be a bit more mature about the whole thing. Throwing fits over something usually wasn't the best way to endear yourself to people, but Harry always had lacked something of a volume control for his emotions.

"I hope it won't come to that," she said, after an uncomfortable pause. "But I can't allow the threat of the friendship ending to prevent me from being with you. It would be like emotional blackmail."

Severus did not smile, but something about his expression seemed to warm, and a little of the hardness about his mouth eased. "I am somewhat relieved to hear that."

Perhaps she should just leave well enough alone, but a lingering guilt over her confession to Harry compelled Hermione to say, "I'm really rather astonished at you, Severus. I was expecting a fearful dressing-down."

To her surprise, he shrugged. "And what would that do? Would it correct the error in judgment you made by telling him in the first place?"

Somewhat shamed by his forbearance, Hermione admitted, "Of course not."

"Then it would be a useless expenditure of energy." His hands tightened on hers for the briefest moment, and then he let go. "Let us rather turn our attention to the erstwhile Miss Parkinson. You say she sought you out?"

Hermione nodded. "Yes, Severus. It was the most extraordinary thing -- " And she launched into a description of her encounter with Pansy, making sure as she did so that she repeated as much of Pansy's story verbatim as she possibly could. She thought she got most of it right; her memory for that sort of thing had always been very good.

As she spoke, Hermione watched Severus closely. His expression altered very little, but she thought she spied a flicker in his eyes when she described the entity that had attacked Pansy and Draco, and there was no mistaking the way his mouth tightened as she related Narcissa's explanation for Lucius' breakdown.

When Hermione finished, Severus was silent for a moment. Then he gave a heavy nod. "It is as I thought. What afflicts Lucius -- and Draco, to a lesser extent -- is something known as Scarbury's Syndrome."

"I've never heard of that," Hermione said at once. "Surely it must be very rare."

He turned a thin smile on her. "Not as rare as you might think. Rather, almost all mentions of it have been carefully erased."

"Why on earth would someone do that?"

Without replying, he turned from the fire and made his way over to the sofa. Although he remained standing, he said, "Perhaps you should sit down."

Mystified, Hermione did as he instructed. Clasping her hands across her knee, she looked up at him and waited.

The pose he adopted next made her stifle a grin, as it was an almost exact replica of the lecturing stance she remembered all too well from her Hogwarts days. However, Hermione schooled her features to an appropriately sober expression and then said, "Do go on."

"Scarbury's Syndrome was first identified in the late eighteenth century by one Silas Scarbury, a Healer at St. Mungo's, although it was not until approximately one century later that it was identified as an inherited disorder, one which afflicts only males in the older and more inbred Pureblood families." Severus paused, his black eyes glittering. "So you see why all mention of it has been suppressed. Pureblood wizarding families do not like to admit to any weakness."

"But surely it would have come out somehow," Hermione protested. "After all, there are plenty of Pureblood male wizards around, and I haven't seen any of them exhibiting the sort of symptoms Lucius appears to be showing."

Without missing a beat, Severus inquired, "Have you ever wondered why, if they were so crucial to the War, the disciplines of Occlumency and Legilimency were never covered in your studies at Hogwarts?"

To be honest, Hermione had wondered the same thing on more than one occasion. It seemed an odd gap in the school's curriculum. She nodded.

"It is because such use of the mind's magical abilities causes a particular kind of strain, one that, in a wizard who carries the gene for Scarbury's Syndrome, inevitably causes madness and death. And since the Healers have never been able to develop a test to determine who carries the disorder and who does not, it was thought best to abandon the study of Occlumency and Legilimency altogether."

_Madness and death._ Hermione shivered, thinking of all the terrible genetic diseases that afflicted the Muggle population, such as hemophilia and Huntington's disease and Tay-Sachs. Who would have ever thought the wizarding world suffered similar horrors? "That's…terrible," she murmured.

Severus gave the barest nod. "Indeed. Half-bloods are apparently immune, so there was no danger in my utilizing Occlumency against the Dark Lord, nor in teaching Potter to use it…not that he ever had the proper discipline to make a go of it. With Legilimency and Occlumency removed from study at Hogwarts, instances of Scarbury's Syndrome virtually disappeared, and the Pureblood families did everything in their power to ensure it would never be mentioned."

"I've never seen anything about this in _Hogwarts: A History_," Hermione said, her tone dubious. "Surely there would at least be a line or two about Occlumency and Legilimency being taught in earlier centuries."

"In a book that was written in 1919, if I recall," Severus replied. "A good quarter-century after the Pureblood Protection Acts were made law by the Ministry. As I said, no mention of the disease was allowed, and Occlumency and Legilimency were allowed to fall into disuse. Oh, one could learn about the practice, if one dug deeply enough, but most students are content to simply pass their O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s without researching forbidden subjects. The Dark Lord, of course, delved in places he shouldn't, and Albus Dumbledore passed on information regarding those disciplines to me when it became clear I would have to master their use in order to be an effective spy. Potter did not realize what a rare gift he was given, to study what so few others have had the opportunity to learn."

An opportunity he squandered, since he couldn't get past his hatred of the Potions master. Hermione had often felt frustrated with Harry for his failure in Occlumency; surely she would have done much better in the same situation. "So I would have no trouble learning it," she said.

"Most likely not." Severus frowned. "Although I do not see the use at this point. There are very few practitioners of Legilimency left; very likely the only person you would need to shield your thoughts from would be me."

"And we can't have that," she said, allowing a quick smile. She stood and went to him, and after a brief hesitation his arms went around her, drawing her close.

Despite his reassuring nearness, and the joyous feeling of those heavy robes encircling her, warming her, Hermione still felt an underlying sense of unease, of doubt. "So what can we do to help the Malfoys?"

"Do?" Severus repeated. At once he released her, and stared down into her face as another scowl creased his forehead. "Did I not just inform you that generations of Healers at St. Mungo's have been unable to find a cure for this malady? It is passed down from generation to generation; it is in the Malfoys' blood. We can no more heal it than we can permanently change the color of their eyes."

His words had a chilling finality to them, but Hermione refused to let the matter go that easily. "Severus, I promised Pansy I would help her. Surely there's something we can do."

A grim smile touched his mouth. "If you want to help, then assist Pansy in securing the most comfortable room in the long-term residents' ward at St. Mungo's for her husband and father-in-law. I fear there is little more that you can do."

Hermione stared up at Severus, desperately wishing he had just made a horrible joke, and realizing he had just told her what he thought was the simple truth.

And if Severus Snape, Potions master and quite possibly the greatest wizard in England now that Voldemort was dead, thought the situation was hopeless, what on earth could anyone else do?


	18. Persuasion

I don't want to be spoilerish, but I debated with myself for quite a while on the rating for this chapter and decided to leave it as it is. If you think it should be kicked up to an M, just let me know -- the last thing I want is to get into trouble for violating those pesky ol' Terms of Service.

* * *

Eighteen: Persuasion

Severus left quite late that night, but Hermione still found herself unable to sleep. She lay in bed, eyes fixed on the beamed ceiling above her, as her mind picked at details and inflections, hints and nuances. After being rebuffed several times in a row when she attempted to steer the conversation back to the Malfoys, Hermione gave it up as a bad business for the time being. Her dropping of the issue did not mean, however, that she intended to do so permanently.

To be quite frank, Severus' attitude puzzled her. One would have supposed he might at least look at the Malfoys' condition as an opportunity for further research, for creating a cure where one had previously been considered impossible. But his repeated refusal to discuss the situation any further suggested he thought otherwise.

The evening had felt strained because of their stunted conversation, as well as the continued specter of Harry's wrath. Hermione didn't know what he had planned – if anything – but it had been on the tip of her tongue to ask Severus to stay the night. Not that she didn't believe he could handle himself more than adequately if Harry forced a confrontation. No, she just preferred such a confrontation not happen at all. Harry had never been in the habit of dropping in unexpectedly at Rosedell…at least not after Hermione had made it abundantly clear a few years back that she valued her privacy and all callers, even her closest friends, should announce themselves in advance. It seemed safer for Severus to be with her at the cottage than alone up in Yorkshire. But somehow she never managed to summon the courage to make the request, and so a little before eleven Severus had slipped away, back to his exile at Dunhollow.

And what if he had stayed? Would he have expected to share her bed, to lie down beside her? That thought filled her with a strange mixture of anticipation and dread. As much as she thought she desired such a thing, she wasn't sure she was ready for it, especially not here…not in the bed she had shared with Ron. That seemed a betrayal of the worst sort. The practical side of her mind told her perhaps she should simply purchase another bed, but such a measure seemed irrevocable, not to mention extravagant. It was a good bed, purchased less than three years ago, and she couldn't quite think of how she'd begin to explain her reasons for acquiring a new one.

_Oh, it's just in case I end up shagging Severus here instead of at his house_, she thought, and for some reason the notion made a most out-of-character giggle rise up in her throat. At least no one was here to hear her laughing like an idiot.

Once the unexpected hilarity subsided, however, Hermione felt her face settle into grimmer lines. Speculating on the progression of her relationship with Severus was all very well, but all the stolen kisses in the world wouldn't help Draco and Lucius. She closed her eyes and mentally ran through every potion she could recall, every ingredient and component and their various uses, but she could think of nothing that seemed remotely suitable for this situation. Potions could cure all sorts of physical ailments, could reverse spell damage or be powerful antidotes to poisons, but all those uses involved an external cause for the illness or injury, not one that came from within.

_We'd have to come up with something which could reverse the disease at the genetic level_, she mused. _And I've never heard of a potion doing anything remotely like that. The closest parallel I can think of is the draught Severus used to make for Remus Lupin, but even lycanthropy is the result of an alien infection being introduced to the host from without, not something one is born with._

With a sigh, Hermione rolled over on her side, then punched her pillow into the usual rounded lump she preferred for that position. She'd promised Pansy she would meet with her on Thursday afternoon, giving Hermione only a day and a half in which to come up with something -- anything -- that might be useful. Right now Severus' advice that the Malfoy men be removed to the long-term ward at St. Mungo's seemed about the best she could offer, and she didn't much relish presenting such a suggestion to Pansy.

_Although Draco is in better shape than Lucius_, Hermione reflected. _Perhaps separating Draco from Lucius so he wouldn't feel required to control his father would be enough to help. I suppose I can propose that as an interim measure if I can't come up with something better._ It would be a poor manner of assistance, though, and she hoped she would think of something a bit more appealing in the time she had. After all, one never knew when inspiration would strike.

All she could hope was that it would strike soon, or Pansy might have to face the fact there really was nothing to be done for her husband or father-in-law.

* * *

Still feeling uninspired, and as dull and dreary as the foggy, drizzly morning that greeted her, Hermione made her way in to work the next morning. She wished she had the nerve to call in sick, for never before had the thought of spending a day at the Ministry appealed to her less. But her attendance record was perfect, barring the two weeks she had taken off immediately following Ron's funeral, and she was damned if she was going to let a serious case of ennui prevent her from performing her duties.

Normally she would simply Floo into the Ministry or Apparate in a convenient alley nearby and enter through the lift from the callbox outside. For some reason, however, Hermione found herself Apparating near an entrance to the Tube in Highbury, not far from her parents' home, and taking public transport from there. She had done so a few times in the past, mostly when she felt she needed to clear her head, to remind herself of who she was and where she had come from. There was something comforting in the crowded anonymity of the Tube, in the crush of strangers who had never heard of the wizarding world and who were most likely occupied with mundane concerns such as getting to school or work on time, or arguments with spouses or bosses, or whether the price of heating oil was going up again. Despite the throngs around her, Hermione felt as if she could be alone with her thoughts.

The train stopped and several people got out, freeing a few seats. Hermione gave a quick glance around to be sure she wasn't depriving an elderly or disabled person of a seat. No one of either description seemed to be in need of a place to sit, so she sat down, picking up a discarded front section of the _Times_ as she did so. Out of habit her gaze slid to the headlines. Politics of course, which she had always considered tiresome but necessary, and discussion of the strength of the pound versus the American dollar, and the usual unrest in the Middle East. But then --

Her heart began an irrational pounding in her breast. Hands shaking a little, Hermione smoothed the paper against her knee and read the headline again. "Gene Therapy Promises New Help for Hereditary Ailments," it said. The article was not that long, but its contents were enough to send Hermione's mind racing. Apparently some scientists in California had developed a method called "RNA interference" that would stop faulty genes from reproducing, thus halting the genetic disorder they caused. The article mentioned Huntington's disease as a particular ailment that could be treated via such a method. It did not go into any more detail than that; after all, the _Times_ was tailored for a general audience. But it was something. She could get more information from scientific journals at the library if necessary. And really, it was the concept that interested her the most, not the molecular machinations the scientists involved had used to create their engineered RNA.

_The concept must be able to be adapted somehow_, she thought, as she exited the Tube at the Leicester Square station. _We'd have to isolate somehow the gene that causes Scarbury's Syndrome, but there must be some marker, some way to detect it, even if the Healers haven't yet managed to do so._

Perhaps someone else might have been daunted by the thought of attempting a task no one yet had been able to master, but instead Hermione felt nothing but a surge of excitement. After all, it was entirely possible the Healers had never even considered using Muggle techniques to effect a cure. Just part of that curious blindness which seemed to affect all the wizarding community. If a Muggle thought of it, then of course it could be of no use.

Well, she'd be glad to prove the wizarding world wrong in regards to that particular belief. Did it really matter where the idea had come from, if it proved effective in the end? And after all, magic would have to be involved here, since the afflicted gene only appeared in those with pure wizard blood.

She folded the paper carefully and shoved it in her satchel. Its original owner had discarded it, so she didn't feel any compunction in taking the front section with her. If anything, she was helping by leaving the train cleaner than when she had found it.

The idea of having to spend the entire day pushing paper from one side of her desk to another suddenly seemed appalling. Hermione knew she needed to see Severus at once and discuss these new developments with him. Although she had never once claimed to be ill when she was not, she told herself that her absence from work today would certainly not hurt the Ministry one bit, whereas it might do a great deal of good for the Malfoys and by extension any members of the wizarding world who might be carrying the hidden gene for Scarbury's Syndrome.

Seized by a sudden impulse, she ducked into an alleyway and Disapparated to Diagon Alley, where she hurried over to the Apothecary's and bought a small bunch of dried sneezewort. After leaving the shop, she paused and crushed the sprigs in her palm, then inhaled, thus causing a sneezing fit that was most impressive in its intensity. The sneezing lasted during her return Apparition to the Ministry, and all during the ride down in the lift to her department. Her unfortunate companions in the lift looked all too pleased when she exited; they had huddled up against the opposite wall of the compartment, obviously trying to get as far away from her as possible.

Sniffling and wheezing, she made her way to Miles Cornish's office. He looked up at her in mild alarm as she stood in the doorway and blotted her dripping nose with a handkerchief.

"Are you quite all right, Hermione?" he inquired, lifting one hand to cover the mug of tea that sat on his desk.

"Quite all right," she replied, although it came out sounding more like "qui ah rihhhhh." "Just got a bit of a cold in my nose."

"Perhaps you should go home," he said at once. "No need wearing yourself out by working when you should be home in bed."

"Really?" she said. "Because I have so many files to get to -- "

"They can wait. Really, Hermione, I insist. Go home, and drink a nice throat-soothing potion. Put your feet up. Take the rest of the day -- and tomorrow, if you need it."

Inwardly Hermione rejoiced, but she managed to adopt an expression of befuddled concern. "Do you really think so?"

"I do think so. In fact, I insist. Go on now." And there he stopped, although Hermione was almost certain he had been about to say, _Before you get the rest of us sick as well._

"Thag you, Biles," she replied, and turned and went back to the lifts, still holding the handkerchief up to her nose. Really, it was most uncomfortable, although not quite as bad as a regular cold. Another bout of sneezing hit her as she entered the lift, and its occupant, a stooped wizard with a shock of white hair and rheumy blue eyes, immediately scuttled to the other side and gave her the sort of glance normally reserved for vermin in one's pantry.

_I wonder how long it's going to take for the effect to wear off_, she thought. _No matter -- I'm sure Severus must have some sort of antidote lying around._ For a moment she worried about Apparating to Yorkshire, then recalled Harry hadn't been tracking her Apparitions at all. If there was some way to block oneself from showing up on Kingsley Shacklebolt's map, Severus hadn't mentioned it, and she couldn't waste time worrying about it now. A spiteful part of her wanted Harry to know she had returned to Yorkshire. It wasn't as if he could do much about it, anyway -- with the wards Severus had in place, they'd have plenty of advance warning in case Harry decided to invade, afire with moral outrage.

Her trusty alleyway served once again as a Disapparation point, and immediately the misty chill of London was replaced by a deeper, bone-freezing cold. A few flurries of snow danced through the air, promising heavier snowfall to come. Hermione hurried toward the front door of Severus' cottage, and, as always, it opened before she had come within ten feet.

"Playing truant, Miss Granger?" Severus inquired, but she thought she saw the corners of his mouth twitch the smallest bit.

"Yes," she said. "Oh, Severus, I have the most exciting news!" And then she lapsed into a series of explosive sneezes.

"Indeed," he said, stepping aside to let her in. "Nothing contagious, I trust."

"No," she replied. "Judicious application of sneezewort to get me off work for the day. And tomorrow, according to Miles." She sneezed again. "I rather hoped you'd have an antidote on hand."

"Of course." He moved to the Welsh dresser in the dining room, selected a flask, and poured a small measure of its contents into a heavy shot glass. Then he handed it to her, instructing, "Drink it all down."

Hermione lifted it to her lips and drained the mixture. Actually, it wasn't too bad – it had a strong, green taste, like crushed dandelions. "What is it?"

"Essence of Echinacea and dandelion root in a chamomile reduction."

At once the tickling in her nose eased, and she took in a deep breath, then another. "It seems to have worked."

"Of course it worked." Severus retrieved the empty glass from her hand and took it into the kitchen, where he rinsed it out and set it on the drain board. He then turned to her and gave her an expectant gaze as he crossed his arms across his chest. "So what is this news of yours?"

Hermione retrieved the folded copy of the _Times_ section from her satchel and presented it to him. "The article in the lower right-hand corner of the front page."

Without comment he took the paper from her, a frown creasing his brow as he began to read. She waited in impatient silence for him to finish. Still without speaking, he refolded the paper and handed it back to her. "So?"

"What do you mean, 'so'?" Hermione demanded. "Don't you see? We could take this idea and modify it to work through magic, come up with a way to create a spell or potion that would correct the Scarbury gene at the sub-molecular level!"

"A pretty fantasy," drawled Severus. "Has no one told you, Hermione, that science and magic do not mix?"

His stubborn refusal to see the potential in such a treatment made her snap, "No, and I don't see why you're being so close-minded about this! There must be some way to modify a potion to work at the genetic level."

"Indeed? And have you ever attempted such a thing?"

"Of course not," she replied. "Not that that means anything. I should you think you'd be interested. After all, I distinctly remember you making a few pointed comments about the need for innovation and research back in the day."

"Did I?" Severus said, but the tone of his voice indicated he was anything but impressed by her recall of his lectures.

Undaunted, she went on, "Yes, you did. And I don't know what your bloody problem is. I'd always heard Lucius Malfoy was a friend of yours – why on earth you wouldn't want to help him, I can't imagine!"

At her words Severus' eyes narrowed, and his mouth compressed to a thin, hard line. Then he said, "Friend! If he was one at all, he was definitely the more fair-weather sort. Did he make any attempt to discover my fate, once it had been determined my body had gone missing from the Shrieking Shack? Don't bother to shake your head at me, Hermione. You were not there. He knew…somehow he must have guessed, for if Nagini had truly made an end of me, I should have still been there when the battle was over, since Lucius knew the Dark Lord had left me there to rot. Those who fought the Dark Lord would have no idea, might have surmised that I had been disposed of somehow, but Lucius would have known something was amiss. And in all the years since, did he ever once try to find me, if only to challenge me for betraying his erstwhile lord and master? No, do not think I owe Lucius anything, except perhaps a wish that his end might be as prolonged and painful as mine would have been, had I not possessed the foresight to prepare myself against the Dark Lord's treachery."

Such deep-seated bitterness tinged his words that for a moment Hermione could think of no way to reply. After an awkward silence, she said, "How did you survive? I've been wondering ever since I found you."

"I am many things, but I am not a fool. I had a suspicion that one day the Dark Lord might seek to betray me – such things were, after all, in his nature. Several years earlier I had been able to secure a sample of Nagini's venom from one of her previous victims, and from it I was able to create an antidote. The blood loss was addressed by an application of Blood Replenishing Potion."

_I knew it!_ Hermione thought in some triumph, recalling her earlier conversation with Harry and Ginny on the subject. _Take that, Harry! _However, all she said was, "We should have stayed – should have tried to help – "

"Help with what?" interrupted Severus. "To your eyes, I was dead. Indeed, it was most important that I appear dead to you and to the Dark Lord, or he most certainly would have come up with a more permanent way to dispose of me. Not to say that it wasn't touch and go there for a few moments, but, as you can see, I did survive."

"Thank God," she said, and went to him, wrapping her arms around his waist and pressing her cheek against his chest. At once she felt his arms go around her as well, in a fierce embrace that threatened to impair her breathing. She didn't try to pull away, however, but remained there for a long moment, feeling the wool of his frock coat scratch against her skin and the quickened beating of his heart as a thunderous pulse to match her own.

They clung together for a few moments, and then Hermione felt Severus place his hands on her shoulders and push her away ever so gently. "I survived," he said. "But by my own hand and no other. So do not think I owe Lucius Malfoy any pity."

The implacable line of his jaw told her he would receive any further arguments with little patience. But Hermione knew she had to keep trying. "If not for Lucius, what of Draco? You were his Head of House, and it seemed you did everything you could to protect him. Surely you're not content to abandon him to his fate?"

His eyes would not meet hers. "I believe that if Lucius and Draco are separated, if Draco does not tax himself further by attempting to control his father's…episodes…then he will not grow any worse. The disease does have some variance in its severity."

"'Not grow any worse'?" echoed Hermione. "I doubt that would be much comfort to Pansy or Narcissa, considering Draco's confined to bed as it is and barely able to put food in his mouth."

Severus did not answer at once. He stared down at her, black eyes hard and glittering as the cut-jet jewelry Hermione had once seen in a shop in Whitby. Then he lifted his shoulders and managed a very sour smile. "You're not going to let this go, are you?"

"No," she promptly replied. "You and I, Severus, are rather like the irresistible force and the immovable object. Although I must confess I'm rather hoping the immovable object will budge just a little this one time."

"Just this once," he warned, but although his tone of voice was quite forbidding, Hermione thought she spied the slightest lift at the corner of his mouth. "You must know, however, that even if I agree to attempt this ludicrous research, there is a good chance we still might not be able to discover a cure."

With Severus at her side, failure seemed an impossibility. Oh, Hermione knew this was going to be very different from the exercises she'd mastered in Potions class – she wasn't merely repeating time-honored formulas in order to produce identical results, but instead venturing into an area the wizarding world had not yet explored – but she was confident they would succeed. Whether they would do so in time to help Lucius and Draco was another matter.

"We should get started," she said, and Severus gave her another half-exasperated, half-amused glance.

"Start where, precisely?" he inquired. "My little laboratory here, as you can see, is rather well-stocked, but as this sort of a cure is unprecedented, I am not sure how much good it will be."

Hermione was forced to admit to herself that he did have a point. "Well," she said, taking a breath and moving closer to the Welsh dresser so she could begin to read the labels on the bottles there, "I suppose the first thing to do is isolate all the symptoms of Scarbury's Syndrome and then list the known potions and potions components that could be used to combat such symptoms. Then we can begin to narrow down which items would be the most efficacious, or would lend themselves to the sort of micronization a gene-level therapy would require."

"Oh, is that all?" Severus remarked. "Then I suppose we had better get started…."

* * *

Somehow the morning made its way into afternoon, and afternoon into evening. Hermione had a vague recollection of pausing at one point to gulp down some reheated beef and barley soup, but otherwise the day passed in a haze of ingredients and lists, potions shuffled from one side of the dining room to the other, disputes with Severus as to whether powdered dragon horn or unicorn horn was a better treatment for the sort of lassitude that affected Draco, and discussions as to whether a Shrinking Solution would be powerful enough to miniaturize the cure when – and if – they were able to come up with one.

At last Severus pushed back his chair and said, "Enough."

Hermione blinked at him with bleary eyes. "Enough?"

"You're not going to do either Lucius or Draco any good if you make yourself sick over this. We've done good work this day."

As she gazed around at the organized chaos that used to be the dining room, Hermione found herself nodding in bemused agreement. All the ingredients deemed to be of little use in their endeavor had been exiled to the Welsh dresser, while those which showed promise were scattered across the table, grouped according to their origin (plant, animal, or mineral) and use.

"I suppose we have," she admitted. "Although I hate to have to stop here." She paused, then said, the words tumbling out in a rush before she could lose her nerve, "Miles doesn't expect me back tomorrow. It would make the most sense if I just stayed here, so we don't lose any time."

"Indeed?" drawled Severus, and there was no mistaking the glint of amusement in his eyes. "A very noble sentiment, I'm sure."

Hermione refused to let the jibe irritate her. "Very well…that might not be my only reason. But if you don't want me to -- "

"Oh, I want you to," he said at once, and although his voice remained cold and even, beneath it she sensed an undercurrent of desire to match her own. "Although I think you are lacking a few of the necessities of an overnight stay."

"I can nip back home and gather what I need and be back in a quarter-hour," she replied. A sense of giddy relief filled her, as well as a growing sense of trepidation. After all, hadn't she just about come out and said she wanted to sleep with him? As much as she wanted such a thing, had dreamed of it, part of her wondered how exactly the two of them were going to accomplish the deed once they got down to practicalities. Would the burden of their shared past be too much to overcome in the end?

"Very well," Severus said. He reached over to the empty chair next to him where Hermione had slung her travel cloak across the seat and retrieved the garment. "I shall see about getting some supper together while you're gone."

Hermione nodded, then stood, pulled on the cloak, and fastened the clasp at her throat. After this task was complete, she went to the door, with Severus following behind. He continued to stand in the entrance, watching as she walked the required distance away from the cottage to be free of his anti-Apparition wards. Then she spun away into the night, back to the living room of her own home.

Rosedell felt oddly abandoned, as if the house somehow knew she was not planning to stay there that night. As Hermione made her way to the bedroom to retrieve a change of clothes and a few other necessities, Crookshanks came out of the doorway to the spare room and attempted to thread his way through her legs. She stumbled, then cut off the reprimand before it left her lips. After all, she was going to leave poor Crookshanks alone once again; the least she could do was give him a few kind words and some attention before she left.

"Hello, Crookshanks," she said. "I'll get you some kippers when I'm done with this. I need you to do guard duty again – I hope you don't mind."

The cat meowed and gave her a suspicious look through slitted yellow eyes, but at least he sat on the rug a few feet away from her and seemed content to watch as she packed clean underwear, a fresh pair of jeans, and a jumper into her small overnight valise. After that Hermione went to the bathroom to secure the toiletries she knew she'd need, placed them in a small plastic bag, and set it on top of her folded clothing. The whole time she tried diligently to avoid thinking about why she needed that overnight bag, but the more she attempted not to think about it, of course the more the subject crowded to the front of her mind. She'd never been with anyone except Ron, and since Severus' kisses were so very different from his, she couldn't help thinking that the rest of the experience was likely to be quite different as well.

_Only one way to find out for sure_, she thought, and a little shiver ran along her spine. Distracted as she was, Hermione still remembered to lean down and give Crookshanks some much-needed scratching behind the ears. He purred and submitted for a minute or so, then gave a shake and stalked off in the direction of the kitchen. Clearly he had not forgotten her promise of kippers.

Grinning, Hermione gathered up her valise and went back down the hall, then deposited the case in the living room before moving on to the kitchen. She tried not to wrinkle her nose as she dumped the offensive little fish in Crookshanks' bowl. At once he set to, and appeared not to even notice as she returned to the living room, picked up the valise, and Disapparated back to Yorkshire.

The wind had picked up; it tore at her unbound hair and sent searching fingers of cold under her cloak. Hermione hurried to the front door of the cottage, which opened as she approached, letting her into its light and warmth. As she stepped inside, Severus took the valise from her chilled fingers and uttered one word. "Upstairs."

Without replying she followed him up the narrow staircase, which let onto an equally cramped hall. Two doors of dark wood faced one another across the corridor, and he opened the one on the left and led her inside. The chamber within was small and austere as a monk's cell: a bed covered in a dark wool blanket, a severe-looking wardrobe of walnut on the opposite wall, an equally unadorned chest at the foot of the bed -- which, Hermione was relieved to note, at least wasn't a single, even though it looked smaller than the bed she and Ron had shared.

A candle on the tiny bedside table glowed into life as Severus set her valise on top of the chest. Then he straightened and stared down at her for a long moment, even as Hermione gazed up into the harsh contours of his face.

She'd never be able to say which one of them moved first. All she knew was that somehow she was in his arms, his mouth moving against hers with sudden ferocious intensity, even as she pressed against him, felt his breathing quicken, felt the beginnings of his arousal. His fingers found the clasp of her traveling cloak, and it fell to the floor, soon to be followed by her jumper. The air of the chamber felt shockingly cold against her bare skin, but Hermione didn't have time to be distracted by it, for then his hands moved against her flesh, reaching up to caress her breasts. She gasped. Nothing had ever felt so real as his touch on her, nerve endings she hadn't even known she possessed flaring into sudden, rampaging life. Then he bent his head to touch her with his mouth. His hair smelled of wood smoke and herbs, and the feel of his tongue against her flesh was almost enough to send her to her knees. She faltered, and Severus gathered her up and laid her down on the bed, then flung off his own voluminous robes and savagely tore at the buttons that closed up his frock coat. The coat soon met its companions on the floor, along with the shirt he wore underneath.

His own skin was almost white in the dim light of the chamber. As she had known, he was thin, but lean, the faint tracings of muscles standing out on his arms and chest. He sank down on the bed next to her, pulling her close. She reached down to free him of his trousers, even as he fumbled with the fastenings on her jeans. Then miraculously it was just the two of them, all interfering garments cast aside, body pressed against body, heartbeat thundering into heartbeat, until finally she took him into her, felt him gasp as their bodies rocked together, on and on until at last he cried out, a groan that sounded as if it had been torn from his throat. Hermione felt herself spasm a few seconds later, the climax shuddering its way through her until she met his groan with a rapturous cry of her own, a repudiation of all the lonely nights she had suffered for the past six months.

He collapsed against her, and she held him close, breathing in the scent of him, relishing the feel of him inside her. Soon they would have to break apart, but for now it was enough to lie in his arms, to feel him as one with her. Never before had she felt so close to another human being. For the moment all else was forgotten: the Malfoys, Harry and his half-insane prejudices, Miles and the Ministry. Everything.

Severus was world enough for her.


	19. Undercover Operations

Sorry about the delay in posting this -- I've had some craziness going on, and I haven't been feeling very well. However, I was finally able to get this chapter done. Thank you for your patience and for all your wonderful reviews!

* * *

Nineteen: Undercover Operations

She didn't want to move. She didn't want to do anything but lie there and feel Severus' lean body pressed up against hers. But then her stomach told her – loudly – that it felt quite neglected after all those exertions and would appreciate some attention.

Blushing, Hermione said, "Sorry about that."

He shifted away from her. "No need. It is getting rather past supper." Somehow he managed to keep the covers clutched against himself as he leaned over the side of the bed and retrieved his garments. "Yours are at the foot of the bed."

Wonderful. Which meant she'd have to slide out from beneath the sheets and flash Severus her bare backside. How convenient that his own garments would be within easy reach, while hers felt miles away. Still, it couldn't be helped. Suppressing a sigh, Hermione slid out of bed and moved with what she hoped was a nonchalant air to the chest at its foot, where her clothes had been unceremoniously scattered on top of her valise. She didn't quite dare to look over at Severus as she pulled on her underwear and jeans, followed by her jumper. That felt much better; it was quite chilly in the chamber.

When she glanced up again, it was to see him also fully dressed, although he hadn't bothered to wind the cravat around his neck, and he'd left the top buttons of his frock coat undone. The scar left by Nagini glared an angry red across his throat. Hermione couldn't begin to think of the agony he had suffered…or the strength of will it had taken for him to lie there in the Shrieking Shack as the life drained out of him and he waited for that one last second before life left him completely in order to take the antidote unobserved.

A rush of tenderness flooded over her then, and she stepped toward Severus. "Your poor throat…."

He gave her a mystified look. One absent finger touched the scar that slashed its way across his pale skin. "It is long healed," he replied, his tone dismissive. Without saying another word, he crossed to the door and headed down the stairs.

Hermione had no choice but to follow, a frown creasing her forehead. Oh, she had known Severus Snape was not the sort to wear his emotions on his sleeve, but she had expected – hoped – he would show her a little more regard now that they had been intimate together. _Seeds first, then roots_, she told herself, reciting one of Pomona Sprout's favorite aphorisms. Perhaps one day she might see a little softening on his part, but for now wasn't it enough that he had let down his guard sufficiently to become as close to her as he had?

Severus waited for her in the kitchen. A platter with a cold roast chicken sat on the counter, and he held a potato in either hand. "Nothing to compare with the feasts at Hogwarts, I fear, but it should do." He set the potatoes down on the counter next to the chicken, reached up into a cabinet for a pair of plates, and then transferred the potatoes to the plates. From a hidden pocket within his robes he pulled out his wand, which he waved over the assembled meal, saying, "_Fervesco!_"

Immediately steam began to rise from the food, carrying with it an appetizing aroma that made Hermione's stomach growl all over again. "Nice one," she commented. "Better than a Muggle microwave."

"Of course," Severus replied. "If you would take the plates -- "

Hermione did as he requested, while he gathered up the platter and made his way over to the one end of the dining room table that wasn't covered in bottles or piles of dried herbs. Some cutlery already waited there, so she surmised he had set the table while she was down at Rosedell gathering her things.

Once they had seated themselves and Severus had put a largish helping of roast chicken on her plate, an awkward silence fell. Hermione busied herself with cutting the fowl and placing a modest slab of butter on her potato, but she could almost feel the thickness of the air between them, the strain which filled the quiet. What on earth could she say? Did Severus want to pretend that what had just happened somehow hadn't? Was he ashamed of his weakness in taking her to bed at last?

How unlike her "morning after" with Ron, when she and Ron had traded sidelong smiles and he'd made a few silly jokes, and they had tackled one another before room service had even come to take the breakfast dishes away. In the beginning, Ron had possessed a great deal more enthusiasm than skill, but at the time Hermione hadn't minded overmuch; she'd done her research and knew that lovemaking, as with most other things, was an acquired skill.

So different from her encounter with Severus, for although she had the impression he possessed far less experience than she, somehow their bodies had come together with unexpected ease. Had he practiced a little Legilimency there, to know how sensitive her breasts were, or that she disliked unnecessary chatter in the bedroom? His quiet intensity had aroused her more than anything else could have, and Hermione felt a familiar warmth in the pit of her stomach as she recalled how his body had felt against hers, the thrill of his heavy hair brushing against her naked breasts.

Blushing, she stared down at her food and forced another forkful of roast chicken into her mouth. It was quite good, a fact which surprised her a little. Somehow she had never considered that Severus Snape might be a good cook, although really, what was cooking but combining a number of ingredients and following directions to ensure the dish turned out the way it was supposed to? It wasn't all that different from preparing a potion.

"And what are your plans, should we find a cure?" asked Severus abruptly.

The non sequitur took her aback for a moment, but then Hermione gathered herself and replied, "Well, I suppose it should be made available to everyone who might have need of it. The Healers at St. Mungo's would probably be able to dispense it in large quantities."

A look of cold amusement passed over his features. "Are you so sure the Ministry would allow such a thing? After all, they have done a great deal to ensure any mention of Scarbury's Syndrome was swept under the rug."

"And that's just ridiculous," Hermione retorted. "It's a disease – it's no one's fault, except perhaps those wizards and witches who back in the day decided it was better to keep marrying other witches and wizards instead of throwing a Muggle into the mix every once in a while. But that sort of thing is hardly confined to the wizarding world. After all, just look at what happened to the Hapsburgs and the Romanovs."

"As always, your rational perspective on the situation, while perhaps admirable, does not take into account the prejudices and fears of generations of wizard-kind." He paused to help himself to a bite of baked potato, then continued, "I very much doubt the Malfoys would appreciate you airing their dirty laundry in public."

No, Hermione rather doubted they would. Still, there was no need to bring them into this at all. "We would never even have to mention the Malfoys. You could say you were working on this cure in secret, and I came along at the end to help you finish the project."

"How selfless of you, when one takes into account that this was all your idea in the first place."

Hermione made an exasperated noise. "What difference does it make who takes the credit as long as a cure is found? That's the most important thing, isn't it?"

For the longest moment he made no reply but merely stared at her, an unreadable expression on his face. Then he spoke, in tones barely recognizable as his own, so lacking in their usual irony were they. "I don't deserve you."

Dumbfounded, Hermione could only gaze back at him, searching his features for some hint of mockery, some clue that he wasn't serious. But she found none, so she finally cleared her throat and replied, "Of course you do."

His gaze didn't waver. "Do I?"

"I don't think it's a matter of 'deserving' a person," Hermione replied, speaking slowly as she sorted out her thoughts. "Perhaps it's simply being open enough to allow them into your life and recognizing all the ways they complement you."

Again Severus was silent. He set down his fork and folded his hands in his lap. "I have never been called an open person."

Talk about understatements. Hermione felt her mouth curve in a smile. "Well, I can see that. But people can change. Actually, they have to, don't they?" As she asked the question, Hermione held his gaze with her own, willing him not to glance away. Severus had kept himself so hidden for so long, after all. Not just here in his self-imposed exile in Yorkshire, but for all those long years at Hogwarts as he did the Headmaster's duty. What had anyone known of Severus Snape, save that he employed the sharp edge of his tongue on far too many occasions and showed a regrettable lack of impartiality when it came to Gryffindor House and Harry Potter in particular? Nor had anyone tried to learn more about the Potions master, save during her own sixth year, when she and Harry and Ron had struggled to uncover the identity of the Half-Blood Prince. Even that knowledge had only been sought in order to solve the mystery behind Harry's potions book and the special spells it had contained. Not once had they made any effort to understand why Severus Snape was the man he was.

"I believe they do," Severus said at last. Although he did not smile, there was a warmth in his eyes Hermione had seen only once or twice before. He reached out and laid his hand on hers where it rested next to her plate. His fingers felt strong and cool, even the slight roughness of his callused fingertips a welcome sensation. "However, I trust you will be patient with me if that change is slow in coming."

She said at once, "Of course." Although she had never counted patience as one of her primary virtues, she thought in this case she would be able to summon forbearance when necessary. As she'd told him before, Severus was worth it.

His hand tightened on hers, but then he withdrew it and said, "It may be possible for a while to conceal the Malfoys' involvement in our discoveries – if any, of course – but there is always a chance someone will find out the truth. Are you willing to face that possibility?"

With no hesitation Hermione replied, "Yes. The wizarding world has been too close-minded for too many years. I'd hoped I would start to see a change with Voldemort's defeat, but really, it just seems to be more of the same. Oh, believe me, it's good to know there's no all-powerful threat looming over us, but after all we've been through, you'd think we would have learned something…and I'm just not seeing much evidence of that."

"Many would think there was nothing to learn," Severus remarked in caustic tones. "After all, the status quo was preserved. True, some people lost their lives, but sacrifices must be made."

"I don't believe that…and I don't think you do, either."

"What I believe or do not believe is immaterial." His eyes narrowed, and he added, "But let us solve the wizarding world's woes one at a time. I've been thinking of our next step, and I'm fairly certain there's one thing we need to do before we can progress any further."

"What's that?" Hermione inquired. She wasn't quite sure she liked the dark note that had crept into in his voice.

"We'll need to procure samples of both Draco's and Lucius' blood," Severus replied.

"Oh," she said weakly, feeling the familiar anxious knot form in her stomach. "Is that all?"

* * *

Promptly at three o'clock on Thursday afternoon, Hermione waited at the entrance to Twilfit and Tatting's. The day was fine, and Diagon Alley more crowded than it had been the first time she had spoken with Pansy; Hermione could only draw up her hood and hope that no one would pay any particular attention to the slight figure in the gray traveling cloak who lingered there and looked into the display window of the shop for longer than was strictly necessary.

At about ten after three, Pansy emerged from the doorway of the shop, holding a bulky parcel. Immediately Hermione stepped forward to meet her.

Pansy started and almost dropped her package. Then she seemed to recover herself and said, "Oh, it's just you."

"Well, who else would be?" Hermione asked with some asperity.

"No one," Pansy replied. She threw a quick glance around the busy street, but no one seemed to be paying them much mind. "Do you have any news for me?"

"Some." The spot where they stood was far too public to hold a conversation, even with a Disillusionment charm employed to distract unwanted attention. They could return to the Leaky Cauldron, but Hermione had a better idea. "Would you mind taking a Side-Along Apparition with me?"

"If I must," Pansy said, her grudging tone clearly indicating her enthusiasm for such an idea.

Hermione reminded herself of the strain Pansy was currently under, then stepped closer to the other woman and took her by the arm. Then they both whirled away from Diagon Alley and emerged in the pleasantly shabby surroundings of Hermione's own living room.

That Pansy thought very little of the faded chintz couch and scratched furniture was obvious – she made an audible sniff as she surveyed the chamber, then asked, "Where on earth are we?"

"My house," Hermione replied. She didn't give a Knut what Pansy thought. Rosedell had always served her well. It might not have the grandeur of Malfoy Manor, but at least it felt like a real home and not a museum. "I thought it would be better to talk here where I knew no one could possibly hear or see us. There's always a chance otherwise, no matter how well your spell might have been cast."

"I suppose," said Pansy. After giving the couch another dubious glance, she sat down and glanced up at Hermione with an expectant air. "What have you found out?"

"That both Lucius and Draco are suffering from something called Scarbury's Syndrome." While she waited outside Twilfit and Tatting's, Hermione had debated with herself exactly how much she should tell Pansy, but after all, it was her husband and father-in-law who were affected, and she deserved to know the truth. Not all of it, of course; there was no need for Pansy to know that Hermione's research partner was none other than Severus Snape, miraculously returned from the dead.

"Never heard of it," Pansy said at once.

"Which is just what the Ministry wanted," replied Hermione. Not bothering to mince words, she explained in a few short sentences what Scarbury's Syndrome was, and how its very existence had been carefully erased from the wizarding world's consciousness."

As Hermione spoke, she watched the look of angry suspicion on Pansy's features slowly transform into a much purer emotion – one of open fear. When Pansy spoke, her voice had likewise lost its edge of brittle hauteur. "How did you learn of it if it's been so hidden? And if the Healers were never able to find a cure, how on earth can you possibly hope to do so?"

"My – erm, research partner," Hermione hedged. "He recognized the symptoms right away. And we believe we've come up with a method to address the causes of Scarbury's at the genetic level."

"Research partner?"

"Yes. He has a good deal of knowledge regarding the syndrome, and he's willing to assist me in developing a cure."

Suspicion flickered in Pansy's dark eyes. "Who is this person? Why would he know about all this when no one else does?"

"He would prefer to remain anonymous," Hermione replied. Although she supposed it was natural for Pansy to be asking these questions, she couldn't help but feel a stir of irritation. What did it really matter who was assisting in the research, as long as a cure was found? "Believe me when I say his only concern is to assist in finding a cure. I know he has Draco's and Lucius' best interests at heart."

Doubt and hope warred on Pansy's face, but it seemed hope won out, for she said, "I suppose I'll have to take your word for it." Her hands knotted themselves in her lap. "So what do we do next?"

"I need samples of Draco's and Lucius' blood." Hermione had hoped that by making this request in a calm, reasonable tone she might stave off any outbursts on Pansy's part, but she supposed she should have known better.

"Blood!" Pansy exclaimed. "Are you mad?"

"Not at all," Hermione said. "It's the easiest way for me to isolate the gene that carries Scarbury's. I have to know what I'm targeting before I can even think of formulating a cure."

Pansy was silent for a moment. At last she said, "It won't be easy, you know. Narcissa never leaves them alone. She even sleeps in a cot in their room – she moved Draco into the master suite, since it was easier to look after them that way. She hasn't left the estate in ages – I'm always the one sent out to run errands. And when she does have to bathe, she always leaves Withy to watch after them, even if I'm there." Her mouth twisted into what Hermione belatedly realized was meant to be a wry grin. "So how do you think you'll get close enough to take blood samples?"

That was a good question. Too bad she and Harry were barely speaking, or Hermione would have asked if she could borrow his Cloak of Invisibility. Charms were all very well, but the Cloak offered far better protection. But she somehow doubted he would give up something so precious in aid of the Malfoys, even though a cure for Scarbury's would of course help countless others besides them.

"I'll think of something," Hermione replied. "I do think it would be best to make the attempt whilst Narcissa is at her bath – I feel better about trying then, when it's just you and Withy keeping watch. Perhaps we can come up with a way to get Withy out of the room. I'll only need a few moments."

Pansy frowned. "Possibly, although Withy would usually follow Narcissa's orders first, since he's of course the Malfoys' house-elf, and I've only been living at the house for the past month or so. But better to deal with Withy than Narcissa." Her face looked pale under its carefully applied cosmetics, and Hermione found herself wondering once again just how much sleep Pansy had actually been getting these days.

However, Hermione did agree that it would be easier to handle Withy than Narcissa. Of course house-elves possessed ancient and powerful magic of their own, a magic that should have made them the equals of wizard-kind and not their servants, but Hermione also knew most house-elves would never think to question their masters, even one come as lately to the family as Pansy. "When does Narcissa take her bath?" Hermione asked.

"Every evening after dinner. Usually it's around nine. Lucius and Draco are…quieter…in the evening."

Well, that was good news. At least Hermione wouldn't have to invent another excuse to get herself out of the office during business hours. Today she'd told Miles she needed to do some research at the public library, and he'd nodded in his absent-minded way and waved her off. She'd gotten the distinct impression he didn't much care what she was up to as long as she stayed out of his hair. Since she didn't like having to continually prevaricate as to her whereabouts, even if Miles probably didn't care one way or the other, she felt a little better about her next visit to Malfoy Manor.

"All right, then," Hermione said, ideas already bubbling in her thoughts like the effervescence in a Felix Felicis potion, "probably the best thing is for us to do this tonight. I don't want to waste any time. I'm assuming that since I was able to get on the grounds previously, the estate isn't warded against wizard-kind?"

"No," Pansy replied at once. "Just the Muggle-repelling spells and charms." She looked vaguely alarmed. "What are you planning?"

Good question. Some vague outlines had begun to fall into place, but Hermione didn't have the whole thing quite decided. But no matter. She still had a good five hours to iron out all the details. "Don't worry about that. Just know that I'll be at the estate around nine. All you need to do is make sure Narcissa goes to her bath at the usual time."

Pansy gave her a dubious little nod, but she didn't protest. Probably she was so desperate for any sort of action to help her husband that she would agree to just about anything – even if it meant invoking the wrath of her mother-in-law.

"Very well," Hermione continued, in brisk tones that allowed no interruption, "I'd best get you back to Diagon Alley. Then you can return home and go on as if everything is normal."

"Normal," repeated Pansy, and then she let out a short, derisive laugh. "I've quite forgotten what that is."

_So have I_, Hermione thought. _With Severus Snape as my lover, and Harry and me fighting…with me risking everything to help two men who would just as soon see me dead and who certainly wouldn't have lifted a finger if our positions were reversed – well, let's just say I don't have a very close acquaintance with normal, either._

She had no more reassurances to give Pansy. All she could do was move forward and hope that fate or luck or whatever force had guided her actions so far wouldn't abandon her now.

* * *

The needles and syringes Hermione was able to appropriate from her parents' dental practice. She decided to wait until after they had closed for the evening and then Apparated in to take the supplies she needed; although no doubt they would have given her the equipment, the explanations involved would have been lengthy, and Hermione did not want to waste any time. It had been difficult enough to return to the office and act as if nothing untoward had happened while she was out on her supposed errand to the library – the last thing she needed was to expend valuable energy in telling her parents precisely why she needed several sets of hypodermic needles and syringes.

She'd returned home to Rosedell for a quiet supper of some leftover potato and leek soup and bread before changing out of her work robes into more serviceable jeans, flat boots, and a warm jumper. After pondering the problem for awhile, she'd decided that imbuing her traveling cloak with a Disillusionment Charm was probably the best idea. She could set the spell before she even left home, thus allowing her to concentrate on the other spells she planned to utilize, including a Hover Charm to get her to the first-floor window of the suite where Draco and Lucius were housed.

Even the light meal seemed to sit heavy in her stomach, but that couldn't be helped now. She'd sent her Patronus to Severus to let him know of her plans, and she'd also told him she would be in contact again around ten o'clock if everything went smoothly. _Never hurts to have a little insurance_, she thought, as she gathered up her Disillusioned cloak and settled it around her shoulders. While she sincerely hoped this would be a quick, surgical maneuver – no pun intended – one always had to plan for the contingencies.

She gave Crookshanks a good-bye scratch on the ears and then Disapparated to the front gates of Malfoy Manor. Immediately chilly darkness surrounded her, seeming to penetrate the thick folds of her woolen cloak. A light, misty sort of rain fell on Wiltshire, the type that would soak her clothing quickly if she didn't get indoors soon. Luckily her plans involved that very thing.

Moving quickly, but taking care not to step in any more puddles than she had to, Hermione made her way to the front door, then lifted the heavy brass knocker and let it fall. As soon as metal met wood, she murmured the words of the Hover Charm under her breath and shot upward, then reached out to touch the stone façade of the manor house and hauled herself along as quickly as she could. Pansy had told her the room Lucius and Draco shared was the fifth window to the right on the first story, and that was Hermione's destination now.

Somewhere below her she heard the front door creak open, and the questioning voice of Withy calling out, "Hello?"

Hermione didn't dare glance down. All she could hope was that Withy would be more likely to look out and around for the unexpected visitor at the door, and not upward. Her fingers slipped on the wet treacherous stone, and she bit her lip, knowing she couldn't cry out even though the rough surface had cruelly scored her fingertips.

This wasn't flying – it was simply using her own strength to drag her along the length of the building. Voldemort had mastered the skill of flying under his own power, and Severus had apparently learned the technique as well, but it was not something Hermione numbered in her own arsenal of useful spells. Still, she moved quickly enough and reached the designated window even as she heard the front door slam shut somewhere off to her left.

Hanging on to the carved windowsill with one hand, Hermione lifted the other to give one quick rap on the mullioned glass. With gratifying alacrity the window opened – inward, luckily, or it would have hit Hermione full in the face – and Pansy peered out.

"Hermione?" she asked, in a hoarse stage whisper.

"Yes," Hermione replied, then hauled herself inside and pushed back her hood.

The chamber in which she now stood was deliciously warm; a large fire burned in the hearth of carved marble. She got a brief jumbled impression of dark, rich hangings on the walls and a ceiling of coffered ebony wood before she focused on the two green-hung canopy beds that dominated the space.

Speed was of the utmost importance now. Without speaking, Hermione went to the first bed and pushed aside the green silk that hid its occupant, even as she reached into the satchel she carried to retrieve one of her syringes. As she leaned over to pull back the covers and expose the arm she needed, Lucius Malfoy's dead, pale face stared up at her. Pansy had not been exaggerating. The eyes that gazed on Hermione now had no more life than those of a doll, or a wax figure. She repressed a shudder, instead concentrating on tying a length of surgical tubing around his upper arm to give her better access to the necessary vein. It popped up almost immediately, a livid blue against his white skin.

If his appearance meant anything, at least he probably wouldn't feel her clumsy insertion of the needle. The flesh into which she jabbed the hypodermic was cool and clammy, and Lucius didn't exhibit even a twitch as she filled the syringe with blood and transferred it to a pouch she wore at her waist. She'd known she wouldn't have time to stop and label each syringe, so she'd brought along two pouches, one on her right hip and one on her left, so she would be able to keep track of her samples.

All that had taken less than a moment. Hermione couldn't allow herself any feelings of relief, however, as she still had Draco to attend to. She let the hangings fall closed once again, concealing Lucius Malfoy's deathlike form, and moved to the next bed. Somewhere in the periphery of her vision she caught an impression of Pansy as she hovered nervously near the entrance to the room, no doubt to redirect Withy if he returned too soon from answering the front door.

Draco did not seem as far gone as his father. His eyes were shut, his pale lashes barely visible against the ivory skin, but at least Hermione thought she could detect the slightest rise and fall of his chest beneath the heavy bedcovers. _I hope you can't feel this_, she thought, as she wrapped the surgical tubing around his arm and gave the crook of his elbow a slight flick to bring the vein into prominence. Biting her lip, she drew up the second hypodermic and began to press it against his pallid skin.

From somewhere behind her came a muffled thud, which Hermione dimly realized was the sound of the door being flung open. Pansy gasped, even as Narcissa Malfoy's cold voice rang across the chamber.

"What are you doing to my son?"


	20. Out of the Frying Pan

I am so very sorry it took so long for me to update this story -- I had personal health reasons for not writing, and then when I started to feel better I was just horribly, horribly blocked (which is part of the reason why I started working on a Star Wars story…often when I'm feeling blocked with one project I'll go over to another to see if that helps me get unstuck). I know it can be frustrating, but I really do have quite a good track record with completing my fics (most of which are novel-length, so that's a lot of verbiage!). Anyway, let's see if we can't resolve that nasty cliffhanger, shall we?

* * *

Twenty: Out of the Frying Pan

Although her heart felt as if it had just lodged itself in her throat, Hermione did not withdraw the needle from Draco's arm. Not now, not when the syringe was almost full. She heard Pansy gasp and then stammer as she made half-hearted attempt to block to the door, "It's not what you think -- she's trying to help -- "

But Narcissa brushed past Pansy as if she weren't there and advanced on Hermione, wand out. At least Pansy's feeble protestations had delayed her mother-in-law long enough that Hermione was able to finish drawing Draco's blood and stow the filled syringe in the pouch on her belt. Once she had done so, she reached into her cloak and drew out her own wand. The last thing she wanted was to get into a duel with Narcissa, but Hermione also knew it was beyond foolish to face the enraged Mrs. Malfoy unarmed.

Even as Narcissa cried out, "_Stupefy!_", Hermione countered with "_Protego!_"

The two spells met in the space between the two women and cancelled one another out in a shower of sparks. Undeterred, Narcissa spat, "_Petrificus totalis!_"

Once again Hermione cast the Shield charm, and once again Narcissa's spell was foiled. This time Narcissa paused, her wand still held at the ready. Her pale blue eyes held a mixture of baffled anger and desperation. "You have no right to be here," she snapped. "How dare you invade our home, meddle with my son -- "

"As Pansy tried to tell you, I want to help your son," Hermione interrupted. Her heart still pounded in her breast, but she also noted that Narcissa had not attempted any of the Unforgivable Curses in her attack. Perhaps that strategy had stemmed simply from a desire to avoid a one-way trip to Azkaban, but perhaps she was not as certain in her righteous fury as she would like to pretend. At least, Hermione hoped so. She went on, "I'm not your enemy, Narcissa. Did you really think that hiding your husband and son away from the world would somehow help to cure them?"

Narcissa did not lower her wand. "You have no idea what you're talking about." She took one step toward Hermione, then another. "Who sent you here?"

Damn. Hermione gauged the distance between the window and herself and wondered if she should make a good, old-fashioned dash for it. If Pansy were a more capable witch, she might have disabled the Anti-Apparition spells long enough for Hermione to make her escape that way, but one swift glance at Pansy told Hermione the other woman probably wouldn't be able to contribute much to the situation. She stared, white-faced, at Narcissa, as if she expected her mother-in-law to Avada Kedavra Hermione into oblivion at any second.

"Who sent you?" Narcissa repeated. Her knuckles whitened as she clenched her wand.

"As a matter of fact, I did," came Severus' voice from the doorway.

Both Pansy and Narcissa whirled. For a second Hermione thought Narcissa might drop her wand from shock, but then she appeared to gather herself.

"Severus Snape!" she exclaimed.

"None other," he drawled, and advanced into the room. Pansy backed away from him, dark eyes so wide Hermione thought she could see a ring of white all around them. Well, Pansy could be excused. After all, it wasn't every day you saw a dead man enter your husband's sick room.

"You're dead," Narcissa said, her tone flat. "Lucius said the Dark Lord killed you."

Severus crossed his arms. Despite the threadbare condition of his robes, he still looked every inch the Potions master. "The rumors of my death were, as you can see, greatly exaggerated. Do I look like a ghost?"

No, he did not. He looked solid and reassuring and blessedly, blessedly alive -- at least to Hermione. She knew neither Pansy nor Narcissa were at all reassured by Severus Snape's unexpected appearance.

He took advantage of their shocked paralysis to move farther into the room and step in front of Hermione, thus blocking her from any attacks Narcissa might still be contemplating.

"I will assume your lack of response indicates you weren't expecting me," he said. Then he turned to Hermione and lifted one eyebrow ever so slightly. In response to his unspoken question, she let her free hand rest on one of the pouches at her belt and nodded, just a little.

"Expecting you?" Narcissa burst out. "I'd as soon expect the Dark Lord to step through my front door!"

"Now, that truly would be disturbing, seeing as he is dead and I am not." He gave Narcissa a disapproving glare. "Really, Narcissa, what were you thinking? That enough peace and quiet would somehow magically restore your husband and son to health?"

At Severus' mocking question, Narcissa lifted her head and matched him stare for stare. She might have suffered a shock, but it was obvious to Hermione that Narcissa did not intend to let her husband's former friend intimidate her, not here on her home ground. "And what was I to do? Was there anyone who could help me? I didn't even know what was wrong with them! All I could do was keep them safely hidden, and hope against hope -- "

"There was no hope, and you knew it," Snape said, not bothering to moderate the harshness of his tone. Contempt curled his lip. "If you truly did not know what was wrong with them, you would have sought some sort of help. But you knew it was Scarbury's, didn't you? And so you hid them away, rather than suffer the shame of having the wizarding world know they were so afflicted."

Any of Hermione's former schoolmates would have cringed at being the object of such derision. But Narcissa was made of sterner stuff -- or perhaps she thought she had already suffered the worst, and so the Potions master's cold words had no power to hurt her. Her thin shoulders straightened, and she flung back at him, "Who would have done anything different? We've already been shunned by wizarding society -- we've lost everything!"

"Everything?" echoed Severus, as he gave their rich surroundings a quick, scornful glance.

But Narcissa affected not to notice -- or perhaps she was simply beyond caring what Severus Snape might think of her. "Yes, everything! Our standing, our respect! The name of Malfoy these days is little more than a mockery." She transferred her angry blue glare from Severus to Hermione, who had not moved during the previous exchange. "And if you were truly trying to help us, why did you send this little Mudblood to do your dirty work? Why not approach me directly?"

Hermione could see Severus' shoulders tense at Narcissa's use of the hated epithet, but he said only, "As to that, perhaps you should ask your daughter-in-law."

At once Narcissa rounded on Pansy, who very much looked as if she would like to melt into the paneling. "Pansy? What is he talking about?"

Feeling as if she should do something, Hermione took one step from behind the Potions master's protective shadow and said, "Pansy came to me for help."

The look Narcissa turned on her daughter-in-law could have melted through dragon hide. "What?"

Instead of cowering, however, Pansy straightened and looked Narcissa directly in the face, even though her own features were pale and Hermione could see the tremble of her lower lip from across the room. "I had to do something! She'd offered to help -- what did I care if she was Muggle-born? What had you done, except put Draco and Lucius in this room and try to pretend nothing had gone wrong?"

The sound of Narcissa's hand striking Pansy's cheek seemed shockingly loud. Hermione gasped at almost the same moment Pansy cried out, and at once Severus snapped, "_Petrificus totalus_!"

Narcissa froze in place, and matched Severus glare for glare.

"That," he said, his voice even more chilling for its controlled silkiness, "was uncalled for. Physical violence solves nothing -- and Pansy only spoke the truth. You had done nothing to help your husband and son, and no doubt she felt desperate enough that even enlisting the services of Mrs. Granger-Weasley here was better than waiting around and hoping for some miraculous cure."

Since the spell still held her frozen in place, Narcissa could only manage a stifled "hmph!"

Severus did not smile, but Hermione thought she saw the smallest curl of his lip, the one that indicated a secret amusement. "Do you promise to behave yourself if I release the spell?"

Another "hmph!" was his only reply, but he seemed to find that acceptable. "_Finite incantatem_," he said, in bored tones, and Narcissa was free to move once more.

Her dagger-sharp gaze plainly stated what she thought of such treatment, but apparently she decided confronting Severus was not a very good idea. Refusing to look at Pansy, who still held one hand to her cheek as if she couldn't quite believe her mother-in-law had just struck her, she said, "Pansy's foolishness aside, that doesn't explain how you came to be involved in all this."

A negligent lift of his shoulders under the enveloping black robes. "Mrs. Granger-Weasley approached me for advice. I saw no reason not to give it to her."

For all the cool indifference in his tone, he might have been speaking of one of his former colleagues at Hogwarts. Of course Hermione realized it would be foolish -- and unnecessary -- for him to reveal anything of his relationship with her, but still she felt rather taken aback by his attitude. If she hadn't known better, she herself would have been fooled.

"And how is it she even knew you were alive?" challenged Narcissa, who gave all the appearance of someone who would continue a fight long after she had lost it. "When the entire wizarding world -- including Lucius, your closest friend -- thought you had been dead these five years!"

Severus allowed a small sigh to escape his lips. "My dear Narcissa, do you really want me to bore you with the accomplishments of Mrs. Granger-Weasley here? Suffice it to say that she, unlike everyone else, was not ready to take things at face value. She was able to locate me when no one else could be bothered. While I might mourn the loss of my solitude, I will admit a slight satisfaction in feeling useful again." Again he shrugged. "But enough of that. You wished to know what Mrs. Granger-Weasley was doing to your son. She was taking a sample of his blood for analysis. We believe the only possibility of a cure lies at the genetic level, and of course we required sufficient material to make a proper study."

Narcissa's face had assumed a half-grudging, half-hopeful expression. "Sounds like Muggle claptrap to me."

"I suppose it would. That is neither here nor there. What matters is whether we can effect a cure, does it not?"

Throughout this exchange Hermione had remained silent, knowing that Narcissa would give Severus' words far greater credence than anything she herself might say. At this point, however, she felt compelled to add, "I truly meant only to help. But I didn't know if you would be receptive, and Sev -- I mean, Professor Snape felt it might be better to present you with a _fait accompli_ -- "

"Exactly," Pansy put in, as if Hermione's remark had finally given her the courage to speak. "What a surprise it would have been -- "

"Yes, a huge surprise to see this Mudblood girl invading my home," Narcissa interrupted.

"I would appreciate it if you would not refer to my research associate in such a way," Severus said, and his mouth thinned. "Do not think I would trust just anyone with such an important matter. She has proven invaluable already."

"Yes, so capable that she required you to rescue her," replied Narcissa, and Hermione bristled. She opened her mouth to speak, but Severus forestalled her by saying,

"Such a 'rescue,' as you put it, should not have been necessary. However, our long acquaintance told me that it was better to keep an eye on Mrs. Granger-Weasley, as I had a suspicion you might try to interfere."

Narcissa looked outraged. "How is protecting my son and my husband 'interfering'? There is a reason my home is protected against Apparition, so that I won't have to deal with interlopers such as she." Her eyes narrowed, and she shot Severus a suspicious glance. "How did you get in, anyway? The anti-Apparition spells should have kept you out."

"Your home is protected, Narcissa, but not your cellars." Severus' face wore an expression of cold amusement. "An oversight that perhaps you thought no one would exploit, but an oversight nonetheless. If Lucius had been less eager to show off the contents of those cellars, I might not be here. But might-have-beens are of little use to anyone."

Pansy had been watching this exchange with her gaze darting back and forth, rather like someone attending a particularly engrossing tennis match. As Narcissa paused, obviously searching for a proper retort, Pansy inquired, "Do you think you can do it? Prepare a cure, I mean."

"That is my intention," Severus replied. "But I cannot give you a definitive answer until Mrs. Granger-Weasley and I begin our research with the samples she's collected."

His words gave Hermione the opening she needed. "And we really would like to get started as soon as we can. Don't you agree, Professor?"

He nodded. "Yes. It's quite clear that we have little time to waste. It's also quite clear that we will work best uninterrupted. So then -- "

At first Hermione wasn't sure what he was about. His wand appeared in his hand, and he moved so quickly that the thin rod was only a black blur. Pansy and Narcissa did not have time to even flinch before he snapped, "_Obliviate!_"

Their eyes went glassy and unfocused. Severus grasped Hermione by the hand and said, "Don't let go." Then he was running toward the window as she struggled to keep up with his long strides, running even as the window flung itself open and he launched himself through into the misty night outside. Hermione could not understand the words he muttered under his breath, but they had to be the charm that held them up, which allowed Severus to swoop through the cold, damp air like the overgrown bat everyone had once called him.

She had heard the Dark Lord himself had taught Severus this spell, but now, as she hung onto her lover's hand for dear life, she could not find anything dark about this magic. The sensation was utterly unlike riding a broom or even the Hover charm she had utilized earlier to get into the bedroom Draco and Lucius shared. Cold air whipped through her loose hair, and the ground moved beneath her with unthinkable speed, trees and roads and houses all one dim, gray blur. It was magnificent.

At length, though, after Severus must have put at least ten miles or so between them and Malfoy Manor, he brought their flight to an end. They came back to the earth at a crossroads surrounded by open fields, with no street lights or even passing cars to break up the darkness.

"That was marvelous!" she gasped. Her voice sounded hoarse even to herself, probably from drinking in huge gulps of damp night air. "Will you teach me that spell?"

He smiled then, or at least Hermione thought he did, it being difficult to tell in the dark. "My Hermione," he said, and something inside her began a slow melt at the rueful fondness of his tone. "I would say such a thing should be rather low on your list of priorities at the moment."

"All right," she replied, and gave him a grin of her own. "After we cure Lucius and Draco, then."

"Agreed." Severus reached out to her and brought her close against him -- but not to kiss her. No, he whirled, and the misty night faded around them, only to be replaced by the sepia fire-lit space of his cottage in Yorkshire. He released her, much to Hermione's regret. It would have been just fine with her if he'd allowed the closeness required by Side-Along Apparition to be replaced by something a bit more intimate.

But he was already moving toward the table where they'd placed all their potions supplies the day before. She hesitated, then said, "Thank you, Severus."

Without looking back, he responded, "For what?"

"For my rescue."

He paused. Then he did turn to face her. "Then I suppose I should thank you as well."

Mystified, Hermione found herself echoing his earlier question. "For what?"

"Did you not rescue me as well?"

She searched for the expected irony in his expression and found none. Again she felt that stirring inside, that ache she experienced whenever he allowed even the briefest glimpse into his buried emotions. In answer she went to him and reached out her arms. This time there was no hesitation; he drew her close and bent down his head to hers. Their lips touched, and it was as if her blood had once again turned to fire, running hot and molten along every artery and vein. She wanted to melt into him, to feel their bodies once more as if they were a single being.

But some small sane part of her mind remained, the one that told her she and Severus had work to do. Time enough for that sort of thing later, after Draco and Lucius had been cured. So she pulled away as the kiss ended, and said, "You're a very distracting man, Severus Snape."

He understood at once, of course. Stepping away from her, he moved at once to the dining room table and shifted a few flasks out of the way. "Let us see what the Malfoy blood has to tell us."

* * *

There was no question of her returning to work the next day, of course -- not when her real work was here, in Severus' cottage. The morning after her expedition to Malfoy Manor, Hermione returned to her own home just long enough to pack the rest of the items she thought she might require, and to use her fireplace to get in contact with Miles and tell him, in severely congested but regretful tones, that all the usual phlegm-reducing potions didn't seem to be helping at all, and that she was unsure as to when she might return to work. Reading another person's expression through fire talking was difficult, but it almost seemed to her that Miles was pleased by the promise of her extended absence. He said all the right things, of course, exhorting her to rest and drink plenty of fluids, but she couldn't miss his nervous smile as he signed off.

No time to worry about that now. Quite possibly he was just relieved to have her out of the way. Hermione knew previous coworkers had complained that her prodigious output made the rest of them look bad, and she supposed even someone who was her supervisor might feel the pressure to perform when confronted by an underling who didn't know the meaning of the phrase "slacking off."

When she returned to the cottage, she found Severus standing at the dining room table as he stared at what looked like an overlarge ruby that hung suspended in midair. It wasn't a jewel, however, but a large droplet of either Lucius' or Draco's blood, spelled to remain in place.

"Magnifying spell?" Hermione inquired, as she drew off her traveling cloak and hung it from the coat tree in the corner.

"Yes," he said shortly, and crossed his arms. "But not magnifying enough."

"Perhaps I should nip back to London and see about appropriating an electron microscope from one of the labs at college."

He did not smile. Instead, the familiar line etched itself between his brows. "Muggle technology will not help us cure something that is an inherently magical disease."

Hermione knew that, of course. Her joke had fallen woefully flat; Severus was in no mood to be teased at the moment. She wondered if he ever was.

"I've been thinking about that," she said, then came to stand next to him. "Mind if I give it a shot?"

His tone sour, he replied, "By all means," and made a mocking gesture with one hand toward the droplet of blood.

She didn't know if the spell would work. But nothing ventured --

Drawing out her wand, Hermione cried, "_Amplio multum!_"

At once the droplet expanded to a shining red sphere, one in which she could see smaller objects moving about in a sluggish, random way.

"Those are the red and the white blood cells," she said. "And the smaller objects, the odd blobby little ones, are the platelets."

For a moment Severus did not reply. Hermione worried whether he was somehow offended that her spell had worked, or that she was in possession of far more Muggle-based knowledge about human physiology than he would have liked. But then he bent closer to inspect the enlarged sample, his black eyes bright with curiosity. "Interesting," he said.

"It's a start," she replied. "But we need far more magnification than this in order to find what we're looking for. Let's see what happens when we enlarge it again. Do you want to try?"

In answer he drew out his wand and repeated the words of the spell. The sample enlarged itself once again, so much so that Hermione jumped backward to avoid getting hit by its outer periphery. The shapes within grew more convoluted, twisting around themselves in odd spiraling patterns.

_DNA_, she thought, and felt a sense of awe as she looked at the very building blocks of the human body. The pattern was so intricate she didn't see how they would ever begin to unravel it. _At least now we can see it_, she told herself. _That's a start._

"What next?" she asked.

Severus gestured toward the sample. "Much of this is the same as it would be in any human being," he said. "Determinants for hair color, eye color, height, allergies…all the commonplaces. But somewhere in there is also the gene that triggers Scarbury's Syndrome, something we can separate out from all the factors that made Lucius, Lucius. But how do we find it?"

Without replying, Hermione circled the sample, staring at it with narrowed eyes. Its very complexity seemed to mock her. Where on earth could they possibly begin? The whole thing seemed hopeless, but she knew better. Muggle scientists worked with these sorts of samples every day and came up with astounding -- well, to Muggles, anyway -- cures. There was no reason why she and Severus couldn't do the same. They just had to go about it in a slightly different manner.

"It's a disease that only affects pureblood wizards," she said, speaking slowly as she worked the concepts through to their logical conclusion. "So it stands to reason that the marker for Scarbury would also be magical in some way. And if that's the case, then we'll need to come up with a way to detect it."

Severus nodded. "Very good. You and I are thinking along the same lines." He lifted his wand once more. "_Magus revelatio!_"

It was rather like looking at a set of Christmas lights being plugged in, albeit a string where well over half the bulbs were burned out. Random segments along the DNA strands flickered to life, glowing a pale golden color. The dancing lights cast odd shadows across Severus' harsh features.

"Interesting," he said again, after returning his wand to a hidden pocket in his robes.

"That can't all be Scarbury's, can it?" Hermione asked. Could the disease have so thoroughly contaminated Lucius Malfoy's DNA?

"No," Severus replied. He frowned. Suddenly the shadows beneath his eyes looked far more pronounced. "I believe the spell has simply revealed all the portions of Lucius' genetic code that are magical. I suppose it was short-sighted of us to think there would only be one or two markers which were magical in nature. After all, the ability to do magic is part of the very core of our beings. Obviously it is closely intertwined with our DNA as well."

Fighting a sense of growing futility, Hermione said, "But how can we ever hope to narrow it down?" She would not give up this early, of course, but any hope she might have had that this would be a quick or easy process was rapidly disappearing.

"We'll need another sample, one of a wizard unaffected by Scarbury's Syndrome."

Lifting her eyes to meet Severus' level black gaze, she realized that of course they would require such a sample, one which could work as a control in their experiments. "It should be mine, don't you think? I still have some syringes left in my pouch."

She'd halfway expected him to demur, to offer his own blood as a sample instead. But he only nodded. "Go and fetch them."

The pouch was upstairs in Severus' bedroom, along with the rest of her things. Hermione went to retrieve the syringes, feeling a faint heat in her cheeks as her gaze fell on the neatly made bed. It hadn't been quite so neat this morning after their exertions of the night before. They had worked until almost midnight, but they hadn't fallen asleep until nearly three.

Somehow she doubted there would be a repeat performance tonight, however. Although it was only midday, already she felt tired, daunted by the work she and Severus faced. Perhaps he had been so passionate the previous night because he knew it was the calm before the storm, a small breathing space before their true work began.

Hermione hurried downstairs and handed one of the syringes to Severus. He took it from her, passing the needle through a candle flame in order to sterilize it. "Your arm," he instructed.

Damn -- she'd forgotten to retrieve the surgical tubing to help bring her veins to prominence. Instead she squeezed her hand into a fist several times, and pushed up the sleeve of her jumper. "The vein in this arm is easier to find, I think."

His fingers were cold as they flicked against the skin of her crooked elbow. He paused, the needle a scant inch from her flesh, when a tinny little bell rang from a string that hung in the corner of the dining room.

"What's that?" she asked.

"Apparition alarm," he replied, then set the syringe down on the dining room table. Face set into grim lines, he went to the front door. Hermione followed, her heart beating a little faster as she thought of the ringing bell and everything it implied. Not a simple intruder alarm -- only a wizard arriving on Severus' property would have set it off. It was how he had caught her, all those weeks ago.

Severus opened the door. On the front step stood Harry Potter. He looked past Severus to Hermione, his green eyes blazing with triumph behind his spectacles.

"I thought I would find you here," he said.


	21. Into the Fire

Thank you to everyone for all your reviews and encouragement -- it was so gratifying to see the flood of emails after I posted the last chapter. I'm so glad you didn't give up on me (or this story). At least I didn't make you wait quite so long for this update!

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Twenty-One: Into the Fire

Oddly enough, what Hermione felt first was not alarm that Harry had somehow managed to track her down, but rather irritation at his interrupting her and Severus just when their research had begun to pick up steam. Really, was there so little work for the Auror Department to do that Harry could just disappear in the middle of the day and come haring off here to Yorkshire?

She'd just opened her mouth to deliver a cutting comment along those lines when Severus inquired in acid tones, "And do you expect to be congratulated on the success of your snooping? All you are doing is interrupting important work."

"Work?" Harry echoed. A look of incredulity passed over his face, but then he paused and appeared to glance past Severus' shoulder, into the laboratory area that had been set up in the dining room. Harry blinked and then frowned.

If he had been expecting to catch them _in flagrante delicto_, Hermione mused, then of course he must have been quite disappointed. No signs of debauchery or wild abandon here in Severus' homely little cottage, only potions flasks and piles of ingredients. And, of course, the great gleaming sphere of Lucius' blood sample, which still hung suspended over the table like some huge balloon as imagined by Hieronymus Bosch.

"Yes, work," Hermione snapped. "Really, Harry, what else did you think I might be doing up here? I'm assisting Professor Snape with a very important research project."

"But -- but you -- that is, he -- I mean, you said you were seeing him!" Harry spluttered. "Why didn't you tell me the truth?"

"Because, as Mrs. Granger-Weasley no doubt has told you on multiple occasions, it was none of your business." Severus crossed his arms and summoned up one of his more fearsome scowls, but Hermione could tell from a certain glint in his eyes that he was enjoying this unexpected but quite useful bit of misdirection. After all, she had never out and out told Harry she had a romantic relationship with Severus Snape, but only that she had been seeing him. Most people -- Harry included -- would no doubt immediately assume a romantic attachment from such an admission. But since he had no true evidence to back up his suspicions, it shouldn't be that difficult to persuade him otherwise, especially with the proof of hers and Severus' research staring him in the face.

Inwardly she felt a twinge at lying to Harry, but hadn't he proved over and over again that he simply could not handle the concept of her seeing anyone, let alone a man as despised as Severus Snape? Better to let the research be her excuse, at least until the immediate crisis was over. After a cure was found there would be plenty of time to get this whole thing straightened out. Until then, however --

"I was told things in confidence, Harry," Hermione said. "I couldn't go around blabbering it to people…even you."

Harry shoved his ungloved hands inside his cloak for warmth and replied, "Told by whom?"

"If she gave you that information, then it wouldn't be in confidence any longer, would it?" Severus inquired. Then he shrugged and said, "Come inside, foolish boy, before you freeze on my doorstep."

Eyes narrowing at the epithet, Harry nonetheless did as he was told and pushed his way past Hermione. Once inside, he made his way over to the dining room table and gazed up at the oversized jellyfish shape of Lucius' blood sample. "What is it?"

Hermione cast a quick, questioning glance in Severus' direction. He gave her a fractional nod, accompanied by the smallest of shrugs, as if to say, _Go ahead and tell him. It will make little difference in the end…._

"It's a sample of Lucius' Malfoy's blood, greatly magnified," she answered, then went over to the dining room to stand at Harry's side.

"Malfoy? Whatever for?"

"He's dying," Severus said, in tones so bland he might have been discussing the weather.

Harry looked bewildered. "Dying? Of what?"

"A disease found only in the old pureblood families," replied Severus. He circled the table so that he stood directly opposite Harry and Hermione; the top of his head was obscured by the bottom curve of the sample, and the strange glow from the bits of magical DNA found an oily reflection in his black eyes. Hermione wondered if he had purposely stood there so as to distance himself from her and Harry. "So no worries that any of us could ever suffer its effects."

"Pansy came to me," Hermione offered. "She was at her wit's end, poor girl, for Draco is ill as well."

"Came to you?" The expression of bewilderment on Harry's features shifted to one of amazement. "I thought she couldn't stand you."

"Desperation drives people to do strange things," observed Severus, still in that dry, disinterested tone. "Personal dislike must needs take a back seat when those close to you are dying. And whatever Pansy -- Mrs. Malfoy -- might think of Mrs. Granger-Weasley, that doesn't change the fact that she knows Hermione here was a very gifted scholar. Since of course I was believed to be dead, no doubt Pansy approached Hermione because she thought she might be her best hope of getting help."

"Yes, that whole dead thing," Harry said, and crossed his arms. "How is it Hermione found you, when everyone else had written you off years ago?"

"That tale is hers to tell -- if she chooses to do so at all." Severus shrugged, a gesture elegant in its very dismissiveness. "Suffice it to say that she discovered an anomaly and chose to investigate."

At once Harry turned to Hermione. "The pension records," he said.

"Yes," she admitted. The timeline was off a bit, but after all, Harry didn't have to know that Pansy had approached her quite some time after Hermione had discovered Severus' cottage here in Yorkshire. Certainly there was little chance Harry would have the opportunity to question Pansy himself. "That was what tipped me off. But Pansy had approached me in confidence -- it wasn't as if I could tell you exactly why it was so important for me to locate Professor Snape. But you just wouldn't let it alone, and -- "

"And so now you know the truth," finished Severus, looking none too pleased with Harry's unwillingness to let the matter go. "But, as Hermione has told you, we are in the middle of important work, work which your presence here is delaying. So if you've satisfied your curiosity, it would be best for all concerned if you left."

The brusqueness was vintage Snape. But would Harry be satisfied with what he had found? Certainly Hermione had seen no betraying softness in her lover, not even the smallest glance or inflection that would have tipped Harry off to the fact that she and Severus were far more than simply research partners.

Harry frowned, and pushed his glasses farther up onto the bridge of his nose. "So what's this disease you're researching?"

Barely suppressing a roll of her eyes, Hermione replied, "Just what Professor Snape said. It's an illness that only affects the old pureblood families. Sort of like the Romanovs and hemophilia, if you've ever heard of that." She rather doubted he had; Harry's Muggle education hadn't been very good, and once he'd come to Hogwarts he'd concentrated pretty much exclusively on the subjects he needed to pass his coursework. Any spare time he might have had -- beyond what he required to keep himself out of Voldemort's clutches -- seemed to have been devoted to studying Quidditch. Very likely he could have recited the World Cup champions for the past fifty years, but that sort of narrow scholarship didn't leave much time for studies of Muggle history.

His blank stare told Hermione her guess had been correct. "Sex-linked recessive gene, Harry. Women can't get it, but they can pass it on. Men can be carriers, too, but it takes two people who have the gene to produce a child who'll get the syndrome. Apparently it's dormant unless a man who's carrying the gene tries to use Occlumency or Legilimency."

He shot her an inquiring look. "So Lucius was using Occlumency and triggered it?"

"As far as we can tell, yes."

Without replying, Harry turned to regard the large reddish droplet that still hung, suspended, over the dining room table. "What are the glowing bits?"

"Are you going to assist us in our research?" asked Severus, who crossed his arms and gave Harry a withering stare. "If so, then please allow us to elucidate further. However, if your only motive in coming here was to discover whether Mrs. Granger-Weasley and I were engaged in some sort of illicit affair, then there is no need to fill you in on the details of highly complex research which, most likely, is far beyond your limited powers of comprehension. I trust we have satisfied your curiosity that nothing has occurred here except an inquiry into the link between magic and genetics."

This speech, delivered with just the correct combination of skepticism and scorn, almost made Hermione believe Severus spoke nothing more than the truth. And if he had almost convinced her, she who had lain in his arms and felt him fill the most secret places in her soul, then how could Harry think anything but that she and Severus were partners in research and nothing more?

Harry's eyes had narrowed at the comment about "limited powers of comprehension," but Hermione noticed he did not attempt to argue. In fact, she thought she saw more than a hint of disappointment on his face. No doubt he had come charging up here, afire with righteous indignation and thinking he was going to disturb them during a mad embrace in the Yorkshire version of a love nest -- whatever that might be. Instead, he'd found them hard at work pursuing medical research, of all things. Not the sort of scene to elicit moral outrage, that was for sure.

As annoyed as she might be with him for sticking his nose in business that wasn't his, Hermione knew Harry's actions had been motivated by concern for her. His over-protective stance was wearing a bit thin, but because she understood what drove it, she was able to keep her tone soft as she said, "Time is short, Harry. Both the Malfoys are very ill, and the research Professor Snape and I are doing here is their only hope. We really don't have much time to spare."

Perhaps it was baffled anger that prompted him to respond, "I never thought I'd see you go to this much trouble to help Draco Malfoy."

"We're not in school anymore," Hermione said. "We have to leave those feuds behind us. Otherwise, the War isn't really over, is it?"

She had directed her words at Harry, but she was watching Severus as she spoke. His expression subtly altered, and it seemed he looked at her as if really seeing her for the first time. Then she saw his mouth tighten once again, and he glanced away from her and down at the jars of potions ingredients on the table before him.

To her surprise, Harry gave her a rueful grin. "That's my Hermione -- always trying to save the world. Well, I can see why you'd think you need to do this, even if I might not agree." His gaze flickered to Severus, who stood quiet and watchful across the table. "And I can't argue that Professor Snape is probably the best person to help you with it."

"How magnanimous," Severus drawled.

Harry opened his mouth as if to make some sort of retort, then shook his head. "Not really," he said. "I suppose I finally realized that Hermione does tend to know what she's doing."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," she remarked, but inwardly she felt a rush of warmth toward her friend. It probably hadn't been easy for him to backpedal from his confrontation with her and Severus, but at least he seemed willing to admit that she and Professor Snape were engaged in something more than a bit of illicit snogging. What he'd do when he found that snogging and much more had been going on in addition to the research, Hermione didn't even want to guess. _Sufficient to the day and all that_, she thought.

"Sure," said Harry. He went on, "Guess I'd better be going, then. You look like you've got a lot of work ahead of you."

"We do," Severus replied. "I trust you can find your way to the door."

Apparently deciding any further remarks would be useless, Harry just shrugged and turned away from the dining room table, then headed toward the front entrance of the cottage. Hermione followed along, uncertain as to what she should say next -- if anything. But then Harry paused, his hand on the doorknob, and she blurted, "How did you do it, anyway? Find me here, I mean."

Harry grinned. "It wasn't that hard. Checked the bottom of your shoe lately?"

Hermione blinked. "What?"

"Take a look."

Frowning, she reached down and tugged off her right shoe, then turned it over. Embedded in the rubber tread on the bottom was a tiny golden object that looked like a small metal bead.

"It's a pretty simple charm, just a version of a locator spell. Maybe I shouldn't have done it, but you were driving me nuts with all the evasion, you know. So I put it in your shoe one day while you were out. Didn't even need to Apparate in -- do you always leave your back door unlocked?"

Of course she didn't, but Hermione had to admit to herself that she'd been distracted enough lately to have forgotten to check the back door. Of all the nerve, though -- to enter her home without her permission and put some sort of magical homing beacon on her shoe! Had Harry completely lost his mind?

She knew better than to give free rein to her indignation, not when she was so close to getting Harry safely out the door. Somehow she summoned a watery smile and said, "No, but I must've forgotten after I let Crookshanks out. I suppose you think you're very clever?"

"Not as clever as some people," he replied at once with another grin. "I have to say it's rather nice to have gotten the better of you at least once. But I suppose I should let you get back to work. Looks like you've got a lot to do."

"Oh, loads," she agreed.

"Then good luck, I guess." Finally he turned the knob and opened the door, letting in a wash of pale daylight and a flood of freezing air. He added, "I'll let Miles know you're still sicker than someone hit with a slug-vomiting charm."

"Thanks, Harry," Hermione said, and meant it. With Harry covering for her, she could be out as long as she needed to be.

He winked and left the cottage, then strode across the front yard to the yew tree. Once there, he bent down to retrieve something. As he straightened, Hermione saw that the object in question was his broom. Of course -- the locator charm would have told Harry where the cottage was, but the charm would not have given any information as to the home's physical appearance. Harry could only fly here on his broom, not Apparate the way she had.

With a slight shake of her head, Hermione closed the door. She turned and saw Severus standing a few paces away, arms crossed.

"I trust the meddling Master Potter has taken himself off?"

"Yes. And I really don't believe he suspects a thing. You're quite the accomplished liar, aren't you, Severus?"

He did not smile, but the ironic twist of the mouth he gave her conveyed the same impression. "Years of practice," he said.

Yes, she supposed he would have had years and years in which to hone his skills at dissembling…and for an audience far more deadly and discerning than Harry Potter could ever hope to be. Hermione had the impulse to go to Severus and throw her arms around him, but something stopped her. Even though she had just seen Harry mount his broom and fly away, somehow she couldn't shake the feeling that he might still be lurking somewhere about the cottage, just waiting for the chance to show her words as the lies they truly were.

Instead, she returned to the dining room table, picked up the neglected syringe, and extended it to Severus. "Where were we?"

* * *

The old-fashioned Muggle clock on the opposite wall hiccupped and announced the hour in a sort of wheezy chime that announced it was far too old for this nonsense, and that they had been up far too late. Hermione gave it a tired glance, ascertained that it truly was one in the morning and not one in the afternoon, and pushed back her chair.

"I don't know about you, Severus, but my eyes are about to go permanently crossed from staring at this thing," she said. "If I don't go to bed soon, I'm afraid I might go blind."

He nodded, but Hermione noticed that his gaze remained fixed on the sample of Lucius' blood, as well as the one which might have been its twin, save for the minutest differences in where the glowing markers were located. That was the sample he had taken from her some twelve hours earlier. While they had been able to take careful notes as to where those variations occurred, so far they had been unable to ascertain which -- if any -- of them might signal the discrepancy linked to the presence of the Scarbury gene. Hermione had a dim recollection of their stopping for reheated lamb stew at some point in the day. Even that brief respite was hours past now, and both her brain and her back were now telling her in no uncertain terms that it was long past time to knock off for the evening.

"Go ahead," he replied. "I'll follow in a while."

Hermione had her doubts as to the truth of that statement, but she was too tired to argue. Without replying, she stood and made her way up the stairs. How had they grown twice as tall as they had been that morning? But eventually she reached the bedroom, where she changed out of her limp clothing and into the warm nightgown she'd brought along. The bathroom was small and barely serviceable, but all she needed at that point was a basin to brush her teeth and wash her face. Having completed those minor tasks, she slid between the cold sheets, then murmured a variation of Severus' heating charm to warm up the icy bed linens. Now her toes were nice and toasty, but she wished he would come to join her so that she could get warm all over.

Darkness embraced her first, exhaustion taking her into deep sleep almost as soon as she closed her eyes. Hermione had no idea what time it was when her slumber was broken by the sensation of Severus climbing beneath the sheets. Not that it really mattered; at least he had finally come to bed.

She rolled over on her side and reached out to him, feeling a lean, linen-covered arm. He slept covered up, as did she. It was too cold in the house not to, warming spells notwithstanding.

His voice in the dark. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"It's all right," she said at once. "I'm just glad you decided to get some sleep."

"Sleep," he repeated, and made a sound that was almost a chuckle.

Then he was reaching out for her, pulling her close. His mouth covered hers; he tasted of the same toothpaste she had used earlier. Despite her continuing tiredness, Hermione felt her body respond immediately: the rush of heat through her veins, the throbbing between her legs. She reached down to touch him, felt him hard and ready for her. Unlike their joining of the other night, this one was quick and urgent, almost brutal. Reaching underneath her nightgown to pull down her underwear, he thrust himself into her, his heavy coarse hair brushing against her face as he rocked his way to orgasm. His climax arrived before Hermione was ready, and she bit her lip in disappointment. Of course it had felt wonderful, but she just wished it could have gone on just a little longer.

Well, sex wasn't always perfect. Sex with Severus was damn close, though, so she decided it was better to let this one go. She'd just have to see that he made it up to her somehow….

He fell back against the pillow, and Hermione felt the bed shift under his weight as he retrieved his underwear. Luckily, hers was within easy reach; a little scrabbling under the covers, and it was back on as well.

An awkward silence descended. Hermione shut her eyes, thinking perhaps the best thing to do was simply to go back to sleep. But then he spoke.

"Did you wonder why I took your blood as the comparison sample, instead of my own?"

Mystified, Hermione rolled over on her side and faced him, even though it was so dark in the room she could see nothing of his expression. Still, if he wanted to speak, better to hold a conversation in this pose than with her head flat on the pillow. "I suppose I just figured you wanted a sample without any wizarding blood at all in it."

"True, but it goes further than that." Once again Hermione could feel him moving as he shifted his position. "There is a very good chance I carry the Scarbury's gene myself."

Somehow she sensed this had been a difficult confession for him to make. "How is that? I thought your father was a Muggle."

"Oh, he was. Precisely."

"So you can carry the gene even if you're half Muggle?"

"Yes. But the disease will never manifest itself. You can only be a carrier."

The first thought that popped into Hermione's mind was that he needn't worry, as she of course was pure Muggle-born and would therefore most likely cancel out any genetic defects Severus might carry. This presupposed that they might have children together, a notion she thought it probably wiser not to mention. Their relationship was on fragile enough ground as it was.

"So your mother's family…" Hermione began, and trailed off.

His voice in the darkness was faintly tinged with amusement. "The Princes are an old wizarding family. My mother's uncle had it, though of course no one would admit that Scarbury's was the cause of his madness. They all blamed it on a jinx which backfired. But he died in St. Mungo's, as far as I can tell. No one spoke of him in my presence, of course, but I was a curious child, and secrets have a way of eventually being unearthed…at any rate, my mother had a mortal fear of bearing a child who would be afflicted. Why else would she have married my father, save to ensure that her own children would be healthy?"

Why else, indeed. Hermione knew very little of Severus' family, but a few little details Harry let slip had led her to believe Severus had had a difficult childhood, with an overbearing Muggle father who most likely found little of use about the dark, difficult son he had sired. No doubt the letter from Hogwarts had come to Severus like a reprieve from Purgatory.

"I'd always wondered," Hermione admitted. "That is, one always wonders why a member of the wizarding world would take on all the difficulties of having a Muggle spouse. Then again…." Something she had once read bubbled to the surface of her thoughts, although she couldn't recall the exact quote, as it had been in French and her knowledge of the language was spotty at best. "'The heart has its reasons…." She paused, trying to remember how to finish the sentence.

"_Le coeur a ses raisons, que la raison ne connaît point_,"1 Severus said, and Hermione stared at him in the dark, quite as astonished as if he had just announced his intentions to quit the wizarding world and run for Parliament. As if in reply to her astounded silence, he added, "Just because certain members of the wizarding world believe their education should begin and end with what is taught at Hogwarts does not mean all of us share the same opinion."

Hermione had always been of the same mind -- indeed, her determination to attend university had quite mystified Ron, who couldn't understand why anyone would need or want to add a layer of Muggle education to what they'd learned at Hogwarts. But to hear it from Severus Snape, who had always seemed more than contemptuous of the Muggle world despite his half-blood heritage, was quite boggling. It seemed the more she learned of him, the more her belief grew that they truly were soul mates in a way she and Ron never could have been.

"The wizarding world has always been short of philosophers," Severus observed. The wry note had returned to his voice. "And when I found certain things I wished to read had poor translations at best, I taught myself the language. At any rate, I doubt it was a stirring of the heart so much as desperation which led my mother to Tobias Snape. No matter. She wanted a healthy child, and that is what she got. I doubt I was quite what my father expected, but he knew his witch wife would most likely have a wizard son. I'm sure he would have preferred a Quidditch-playing roustabout like James Potter -- that at least he could have understood -- but very few of us in this world get exactly what we desire."

"And what do you desire, Severus?" Hermione inquired. Under other circumstances she would never have been so bold as to ask such a question, but this odd confessional mood of his had given her courage. She had purposely avoided all discussion of their future together, dismissing it as a topic that would most likely end in disaster. But now --

For a long moment he made no answer. Then he said, "A place of my own. Why do you think I came here, after all the wizarding world thought I was dead? I spent half my life working to destroy the Dark Lord. When that goal was accomplished against all odds, I thought I wanted peace and quiet, a chance to reflect. I thought I had everything I needed here. But now -- " He paused. Hermione felt him reach out to push a stray curl back from her forehead; his darkness vision must have been better than hers. "Now I find I have everything I need here, as long as you are with me. I cannot speak to the future, but I do know I have no wish to face a future without you in it." And then he reached out and drew her close, as Hermione wrapped her arms around him and laid her head against his chest.

Despite everything, she thought she had never been happier than she was in that moment. No matter what happened, at least she now knew that Severus wanted her as much as she wanted him. The future, which had seemed cloudy and dark, had suddenly brightened, as if the sun had emerged from a bank of storm clouds. She felt she could face anything, now that Severus had all but promised to spend the rest of his life with her.

After all, what were angry friends, and mysterious diseases, and a disapproving world, compared to their love?

1 "The heart has its reasons, which reason does not know."


	22. Bloodlines

I know that I take longer to update than most of you would like -- heck, it frustrates me, too. I apologize, but all I can do is keep plugging away and try to write as much as I can. Some weeks are better than others. Anyhow, thank you to everyone for your reviews, and for your patience.

* * *

Chapter 22: Bloodlines

Hermione awoke from a troubling dream, one in which she wandered from room to room in an enormous gray stone building that resembled Hogwarts in its basic architecture but whose details were utterly unfamiliar. In the dream she had been searching for something, but although she moved from corridor to corridor and room to room in ever-increasing haste, the object of her quest remained tantalizingly out of reach, just a flicker of elusive golden light at the very edges of her vision. She couldn't recall making a sound, but she felt Severus' hand first on her arm, and then against her forehead.

"Bad dreams?" he asked quietly.

She wondered what nightmares he might suffer. What flashbacks to his dealings with Voldemort and his time with the Death Eaters might haunt Severus' sleep? "I'm not sure," she said. "Not a real nightmare, anyway. More like something I should remember."

"Ah." He pushed her loose hair back from her forehead and laid a gentle kiss on her temple. "Then I have no doubt you will remember in time." His black eyes glinted. "I just recalled that I have been rather remiss myself."

"Remiss?"

In answer he kissed her again, this time on her throat, and then in a delicious trail from her neck to her breast, barely accessible through the open placket of her heavy nightgown. His free hand pushed the flannel up off her legs as he reached to touch her. Hermione gasped, feeling his long, sensitive fingers finding the exact spot which brought on the most exquisite sensations. Her blood seemed to flare hot as dragon fire, and she pressed herself against him. The climax came quickly, but he was not content to stop there. Instead he slipped under the covers, breath hot on her skin. She barely felt him tug at her underwear and pull it down her legs. Then his mouth was on her, his tongue flickering against the delicate flesh.

Hermione cried out, her fingers knotting in his heavy, slick hair. Every nerve ending seemed to throb with pleasure, until the orgasm broke over her in a huge pulse of golden heat that rippled down to her very fingertips. But even that wasn't enough – Severus did not stop until she had climaxed once more. Then at last he pulled away slightly and thrust himself inside her. She welcomed him, wrapping her legs around his back, clutching him with every last bit of strength she still possessed. They rocked together for time unending, lost in the heat of their mingled bodies, as the echoing waves of ecstasy ebbed and flowed between them.

Some time later they broke apart. Hermione could do nothing but lie back flat against the pillows, her chest heaving with the effort of pulling in enough oxygen to keep herself somewhat conscious. The bed was a mess and the linens would now need changing, but she found she didn't care much. Not when Severus had just reminded her of why it was such a good thing to be alive.

He lay there for a moment as well, but then, ever businesslike, took himself off to the bathroom to get himself cleaned up. Hermione knew she should do the same, but somehow she wasn't quite sure her limbs were yet capable of independent movement. Besides, there was something delicious about lying there, her entire body still warm and languorous in the afterglow of their lovemaking. The bed was outfitted with two quilts and a heavy woolen blankets, so there was little chance of her catching a chill.

The curtains had been pulled shut, so she could see nothing of the day outside save a hazy, dim glow through the heavy linen. Probably it was snowing again; something about the gray quality of the little light which did seep through told her of yet another bleak Yorkshire morning. Even that wasn't enough to dampen the warmth inside her, a warmth which didn't entirely stem from the lovemaking they had just shared. No, it was also the memory of Severus' words the night before, when he had told her he had no desire to face a future without her in it. She had be so uncertain for so long, not knowing whether the depth of his feelings for her matched those she had for him. Only a fool would think they didn't still have a dark and difficult road ahead of them, and Hermione was no fool. But at least now she could face the future secure in Severus' love.

He returned to the room clad in the dark robe that usually hung from the peg on the back of the bathroom door. His dark hair fell in lank strands almost to his shoulders and left trails of moisture on the fabric. Obviously he had decided to take a quick shower. Another perquisite of being a wizard; one was always assured of endless hot water, even if one's abode hadn't originally been plumbed that way.

His words quelled some of the warmth inside her, however. "You should think about returning home."

At that she sat up. Her nightgown gaped all the way past her breasts, but Hermione didn't bother to pull it shut. "Home?"

"You may have put Harry off for now, but you cannot keep making excuses to the Ministry forever." Severus frowned. "And I would suppose that ridiculous animal you call a pet will need to be looked after at some point."

His words caused a spasm of guilt. Of course she had left enough food and water for Crookshanks to last several days, but Hermione knew the cat must be missing her, left alone in the cottage as he had been. As much as she loved Severus, she had a duty to Crookshanks to make sure her pet was taken care of.

"You're right, of course," she said. "But our research – "

"Can be carried out remotely, if necessary. You may take Draco's sample with you. Perhaps with both of us working in parallel we will reach a solution that much more quickly."

The words spilled forth before Hermione could stop them. "If you really want to send me away – "

At once he went to her, then sat down on the bed and took one of her hands in his. "Send you away? Is that what you think? I would like nothing better to keep you here with me, for both of us to tell the world to go hang. But we have responsibilities which are not so easily shirked. Would we really want our selfishness to result in the deaths of Lucius and Draco Malfoy?"

Again Hermione felt a wave of guilt wash over her. "No, of course not. It's just – do you think we'll ever have a time just for us?"

"I cannot say. The world always expects more from those who have the most to give. I think you have learned this already."

Oh, yes, she had, on more than one occasion. Severus had probably learned this bitter lesson as well. The more capable you were, and the more you wished to make right in the world, the more that world leaned on you. She had never minded before; indeed, in the months following Ron's death, she had welcomed the weight of her responsibilities. They had helped to distract her from how empty her life had become. No honeymoon period for her with Severus like what she had had with Ron, however; the world required too much of her at the moment.

She raised her chin and looked directly into Severus' dark eyes. "I think I'll have that shower now."

* * *

Rosedell felt like a foreign place to her, although she had only been away two days. Crookshanks greeted her with an affronted yowl and all but herded her into the kitchen as he meowed loudly the entire time. He still had food and water, but Hermione knew that wasn't what had upset him so much. At once she got the last tin of tuna and put it in a special bowl, then set it on the ground next to his dry food. He would not eat until she had bent down and scratched his ears for several minutes, but at last he shook himself and went to the bowl of tuna.

"Sorry, Crookshanks," Hermione said. "I'd try to explain to you where I've been and what I've been doing, but I somehow get the feeling you wouldn't much care."

She straightened and went to set a kettle on the stove. Perhaps a cup of tea wasn't the cure for all her ills, but at least the familiar actions were comforting. She'd shared a quick breakfast of toast with Severus but hadn't lingered. He was right. She needed to be here at Rosedell, if only for a little while.

Her dining room table wasn't as large as the one Severus had at his home in Yorkshire, but it should do. In her satchel she had brought back with her Lucius' and Draco's precious blood samples, as well as the more promising of the potions ingredients Severus had collected. What she found herself thinking of, however, was not the painstaking research into which sections of Malfoy DNA contained the key to Scarbury's Syndrome, but Severus' revelation that he feared he might be a carrier as well. Something about his words troubled her, as if there was something not quite right about that assumption, even though she couldn't say why.

Hermione didn't like not knowing the answers to things. Never mind that genetics wasn't a subject covered at Hogwarts, nor even during her time at university. She'd concentrated on history, her first love, not science. But since they were trying to discover the key to Scarbury's, didn't it make sense for her to try to discover precisely how it was transmitted?

That sort of research couldn't be conducted here at Rosedell, of course. She'd have to go to the public library in Ottery St. Catchpole, even though she'd steadfastly avoided the place ever since Ron's death. Or, failing that, make use of the university library card she still possessed and go back to London University. That might be more helpful; she had a feeling the genetics section at the local facility might be somewhat limited.

But it turned out she'd sold Ottery St. Catchpole's library short. True, the place only had one or two basic works on genetics, but they were fairly recent, not the early-century relics she'd feared she might find. And the library had also recently outfitted itself with several internet terminals, thus giving her access to information far beyond what she might locate on the shelves here.

She'd already surmised that Scarbury's must be a sex-linked genetic disease, since everything she'd heard so far seemed to indicate women could only carry the disease and not show actual symptoms. A brief scan of the newer of the two texts she'd found explained why – a woman, who of course had two X-chromosomes, could only exhibit the disease if she'd inherited it from both parents. In most Muggle sex-linked disorders, this sort of transmission was very rare, as most men affected by these illnesses were unlikely to father children. However, Scarbury's didn't impair function until the portions of the brain utilized during the practice of Occlumency were engaged. Even then, though, a son could only get the disease from a carrier mother, since it was passed through the X-chromosome.

It also meant, Hermione realized, with a rush of relief, that Severus – or any other male wizard -- couldn't be a carrier. If he'd inherited the gene from Eileen Prince, he would have been afflicted the second he attempted to use Occlumency. Lucius Malfoy could have only gotten the disorder from his own mother, just as Draco must have inherited his from the Black side of the family. Even though his own son had the illness, Lucius could not have been the one who passed it on. It was just luck of the worst sort that paired two random families – two inbred, Pureblood families, Hermione reminded herself – and led to two generations of men being afflicted by the same terrible disease.

How this information might help her, she wasn't sure, but at the very least knowing Severus was free of Scarbury's taint set her mind somewhat at ease. It was very possible that his mother hadn't carried the gene at all – just because it had showed up in an uncle didn't necessarily mean she was affected. Hermione wondered how much of the female wizarding population might actually be carriers. Almost impossible to say at this point – the subject had been buried in the dark for so long that of course no one had been keeping careful statistics the way Muggles did with color blindness and hemophilia and the numerous other disorders which could be passed along from mother to child. Once they had isolated the gene, perhaps she and Severus could come up with an effective way of screening for it. After all, Scarbury's wasn't a death sentence. All you had to do was avoid the use of Occlumency and Legilimency, and you'd be just fine….

But all that was getting ahead of herself. First, a cure.

Easier said than done, of course. Hermione gazed at the assembled ingredients on her dining room table and struggled to fight off a sensation of overwhelming futility. Somehow this had seemed so much easier with Severus at her side. She couldn't let his absence affect her, though. Hadn't she figured out how to make Polyjuice Potion without any assistance? And hadn't she come up the clever use of the snitch jinx to have the word "sneak" appear on the face of anyone who dared to betray the D.A.? She hoped she wasn't turning into the sort of woman she'd always rather despised, the type who couldn't get anything done without a big, strong man to support her.

Admitting you loved someone and wishing they were close wasn't weakness, though. Or if it were, then it was the sort of weakness she'd gladly own. Hermione wondered if Severus' thoughts strayed to her as he worked away in solitude. Difficult to say – after all, he had many years of lonely labor behind him, as well as the ability to achieve an almost frightening focus in times of duress. Perhaps for him she didn't even exist when he was in such a state.

Hermione found she didn't like that notion very much. Setting her jaw, she pushed up the sleeves of her jumper and retrieved the vials containing Lucius' and Draco's blood from her satchel. The sooner she got to work, the sooner she'd find the solution they'd been seeking. And the sooner that end was achieved, the sooner she could return to Severus. Perhaps not the most selfless of reasons for finding a cure, but did it really matter, as long as that cure was found?

* * *

The fire guttered out in a mound of grey ash. Hermione found herself jerking awake, then shot a worried glance at the clock on the mantel. It couldn't really be that late – she'd only thought to sit down and rest her eyes for a moment, give herself a chance to get off her feet for a little while. How could it already be one in the morning?

She had no reason to distrust the clock; it was one of those little atomic gadgets that kept perfect time, a present from her parents two Christmases past. Really, her home had far more Muggle artifacts than any wizard dwelling had any right to, but between the Weasley fascination with nonmagical artifacts and her own parents of course giving her the sort of items they could easily purchase, the house was an odd hybrid of the magical and mundane. Having been raised a Muggle herself, Hermione could never embrace the total denial of technology even the more enlightened members of the wizarding world seemed to espouse. What was wrong with taking the best of what each world had to offer? Rejection of one or the other simply because of blind prejudice seemed to her both short-sighted and foolish.

It was a simple thing to get the fire going once again. Despite the lateness of the hour and the realization that she should really go to bed and start over fresh in the morning, Hermione forced herself to return to the dining room table. A trio of the same intricate, glowing orbs she and Severus had first called into being in his home hung over the table, although an astute observer might have noticed minute differences in pattern between the ones she beheld now. Draco's glowed more brightly, the tiny firefly dots that signaled the magical portions of his DNA more evenly spaced. Next to it hung the sample from her own blood that Severus had taken from her the day before. It shone even brighter than Draco's; although there weren't as many glowing segments, the ones that were lit from within looked almost like tiny suns. Hers, however, had a geometric pattern unlike the other two. If she squinted at the sample of her blood, she could almost see the elegant traceries it formed, rather like a tile pattern she'd once seen in a book on Middle Eastern architecture. Not that that helped much, since Draco's blood didn't evince such patterns, although it seemed as if they might have existed at one point and for some reason had deviated in certain sections. Lucius' sample, on the other hand, was a complete chaotic mess, as random as a drift of autumn leaves.

What that all proved, she couldn't be sure. Did she have fewer of the magical DNA segments because she was Muggle-born? Was there no discernable pattern in Lucius' blood sample because of the effects of Scarbury's, or was his DNA pattern random because he'd been born that way? No wonder Muggle research studies utilized such large control groups – it was impossible to speculate on the patterns and their correlation to magical ability (or lack thereof) without many more samples than Hermione currently had before her. Any guesses she made would simply be that – guesses, with little real evidence to back them up.

Still…

Frowning, Hermione circled the dining room table, looking at the three samples with narrowed eyes. Good thing she only needed a drop of blood to perform the spell, and that the charm kept the precious liquid in complete stasis, guarded against decay and spoilage. She and Severus had managed to get safely away with the samples they had now, but she certainly didn't want to raid Malfoy Manor again in order to keep procuring fresh supplies for research.

If her own blood was the control, the one sample she had for observation that was completely unaffected by Scarbury's, then perhaps the pattern was the key. Perhaps the degradation of the links in the magical DNA was what weakened the mind of the sufferer, allowing control of magic to slip out of his hands so that it raged, unchecked, against all in the vicinity.

Could it be that simple? Could the answer lie in the relationships among the individual bits of DNA, rather than in one lone piece of genetic material gone awry? Only one way to be certain, she supposed.

Hermione drew out her wand. If she were wrong, then she would surely ruin the sample she had before her. But there was enough left in the vial for her to create another specimen cell if necessary, and it would not do to be timid. Had Marie Curie hesitated when researching the effects of radium? Had Rowena Ravenclaw equivocated when she invented the ever-changing staircases at Hogwarts?

Sometimes all one could do was act. Hermione raised her wand, pointed it at the shimmering orb of Draco's blood that floated above the dining room table, and cried out, "_Reparo!_"

A wash of golden light flooded over the sphere. The individual twinkling segments of DNA seemed to writhe and twist, as if being bent into place by some unseen force. And then the golden light ebbed, leaving behind it a sphere almost identical to Hermione's sample. It shone a little less brightly than hers, but the pattern was there, if she looked hard enough.

Hermione expelled a breath and slowly lowered her wand. Moving with care, almost as if she worried she might undo what she had done with a hasty gesture or too heavy a step, she went closer to the table. The gleaming orb did not shift or alter its appearance, but merely hung there, motionless before her wondering eyes.

_Did that do it?_ she thought. _It can't possibly be that easy, can it?_

With one finger she reached out to touch the orb. It felt warm and unpleasantly moist against her fingertip, but although it shuddered slightly as she pushed against it, the careful patterns remained in place, the softly glowing bits of DNA never flickering or growing dark.

She wanted to throw her arms out and do a dance of joy. Her elation faded abruptly, however, when she realized that all she had done was repair one cell. One cell, out of hundreds of millions.

_It's a start, though_, she told herself. _Now that I know how it works, I can tell Severus, and perhaps he'll know of a way to get a similar effect through use of a potion._ After all, it wouldn't be exactly practical to extract a Scarbury victim's cells one by one and cast a repair spell on them individually. It would take years just to cure one person.

Not for the first time, Hermione wished Severus were connected to the Floo network. Then it would be the simplest thing in the world to contact him through the fire and have him come here to see what she had done. Failing that, however, she'd send him a message through her Patronus.

It was easy enough to summon the Patronus; despite the complications of extrapolating a cure from the healing of a single cell, she still felt positively euphoric over the discovery she had just made. The sleek, glowing shape of the otter disappeared through her front door almost at once, heading north with its message. Now all Hermione had to do was wait.

With anyone else perhaps she would have waited until morning to impart the good news, but she knew Severus most likely was still awake. Even if he were not, she guessed he would not be overly upset at being awakened for such a reason. So little was known of Scarbury's that Hermione had no idea how quickly the disease might progress, or how much time Lucius and Draco might have left. Judging by the degraded state of Lucius' blood sample, Hermione guessed it mightn't be very long at all.

It would not do to wait in idleness, however. She returned to the dining room table and drew out her wand once more. It had been simple enough to repair Draco's sample, but what of Lucius, so much more affected by the disease than his son?

Nothing ventured….

"_Reparo!_" Hermione cried out, injecting every ounce of desire to find a cure she possessed into that one syllable.

Again golden light splashed its way across the sphere. This time, however, the hugely enlarged cell seemed to shrink in on itself, even as it shuddered and twisted, contorting like a sponge being wrung by unseen hands. Then it exploded outward. Hermione barely had time to utter a Shield charm before the glistening contents coated every inch of the dining room, including her. As it was, the table and the potions supplies it held got a liberal dousing of rather nasty-looking organic matter.

"Well, damn," Hermione said, then cautiously lowered her wand. At least the Shield charm had protected the two other samples, but Lucius' blood cell was gone, reduced to several large patches of ooze on the table.

She wasn't quite sure what the cell's self-destruction meant. Had she been too forceful in casting the spell? Or was it simply that the disease had progressed too far, and the cell was too damaged to be repaired? If that were the case, were all the cells in Lucius' body similarly degraded, or did she just have a bad sample?

Questions, questions, all of which had no answers. Frustrated, Hermione set about cleaning up the mess left behind by the cell's destruction. She couldn't very well leave the dining room table that way, and she thought perhaps it would be better to wait for Severus to arrive before attempting any further experiments.

Luckily, such a task was accomplished quickly enough through the judicious use of a few household spells she'd learned from Molly. More than half of the potions supplies, however, were a total loss. All Hermione could do was throw them in the waste bin and hope none of them were items Severus might need to synthesize a potion based on her findings.

She had just returned the waste bin to its place in the kitchen when she heard a loud pounding on the front door. Even as she hurried to answer it, she wondered why Severus hadn't just Apparated directly into the house instead of knocking. No matter, she supposed – the important thing was that he was here.

But when Hermione flung open the front door, she found herself not looking up into Severus' familiar features, but rather down into Pansy Malfoy's battered, bloody face.

"Help us," Pansy whispered, and then collapsed in a messy heap on the front step.


	23. Confrontations

I'm very sorry for the long delay in updating this story. My father was diagnosed with lung cancer at the beginning of the summer, and although he went through surgery and is doing OK for now, it was a very stressful time. Work was also a nightmare. Sometimes it's just impossible to write, even when you know you should. Rest assured that I've already started on the next chapter, so the wait won't be nearly so long next time.

* * *

Chapter 23: Confrontations

A grotesque mask of livid bruises and dark, oozing blood almost obscured Pansy's face. Her black-circled eyes were almost swollen shut.

"Pansy!" Hermione exclaimed, and reached out as the young woman tripped on the front step and almost fell into her arms. "What happened?"

"Didn't know – where else to go," Pansy gasped. Her mouth was puffy and bruised as well, and fresh blood painted her front teeth red from a gash in her lower lip. "Lucius – "

From the younger Mrs. Malfoy's appearance, Hermione had already guessed the worst. The important thing now, however, was to get Pansy inside and cleaned up so that Hermione could get a better look at her injuries.

"Come sit down," Hermione said, half guiding, half carrying Pansy to the living room sofa.

Pansy was obviously too far gone to protest. She staggered across the room and sank down on the couch. "Have to help – "

"I know, Pansy, and I shall, but first I must see how badly you're hurt."

A violent shake of the head. "No time. Narcissa – "

"Narcissa is still back at Malfoy Manor with Lucius?"

Pansy nodded. "Went mad. She tried to stop him – "

Hermione knew she couldn't leave Pansy for a second. "_Accio_ first aid kit!" she called out, and the little kit which used to reside in the trunk of Ron's car but now was kept under the bathroom sink came sailing into her hands. She opened it at once and pulled out one of the little alcohol wipes to clean the blood off Pansy's forehead.

"Leave it," Pansy said, and pushed Hermione's hand away. "There's no _time_."

"You'll be no help to anyone if you're blinded by your own blood!"

This stark retort seemed to quell Pansy, if only for the few seconds Hermione required to finish her clean-up. The majority of the mess on her face came from a long gash along Pansy's hairline. It wasn't particularly deep, but its edges were jagged. It kept oozing blood, and the alcohol wipes were not up to the task.

Still, Hermione managed to blot the worst of it away and slap a gauze dressing over the wound. Pansy probably should have gone to St. Mungo's for a patching-up; no doubt the healers there would take one look at her battered form and be all over her with Invigorating Draughts and Blood Replenishing Potions. But, as Pansy herself had said, there was no time for that.

"All right," Hermione said, once she was finished with her hasty ministrations. "So Lucius attacked both of you?" She couldn't help but let a trace of doubt enter her tone. After all, the last time she had seen Lucius Malfoy, he had been sunk so deep in a coma he apparently hadn't even noticed her sticking a needle into his arm.

"Yes," Pansy replied, then abruptly stood. "Narcissa was bending over him, washing his face, and suddenly he sat bolt upright in bed and let out the most bloodcurdling banshee scream. And then it -- the force that comes out of him -- roared out and struck her so she flew halfway across the room. I tried to go to her, but it picked me up and threw me into the wall. It has claws -- it caught my forehead -- "

Pansy raised shaking fingers to the bandage at her hairline, almost as if she needed to reassure herself that her hair was still more or less intact. "Anyway, I knew I couldn't stop it. I can manage a Shield spell, but I never really paid much attention in the Dark Arts classes. I didn't think I'd ever need it."

The flow of words stopped there. Perhaps she had thought that, as Draco Malfoy's favored companion, no practitioner of the Dark Arts would dare to lay a hand on her. Such short-sightedness rarely did anyone any good, but Hermione knew this was not the time to scold Pansy for such gaping holes in her magical knowledge.

"Let me get my wand," Hermione said. She also rose from the couch and went to fetch the slender ash-wood stick. Of course her own lovely vine wood wand was long gone, and she had abandoned Bellatrix Lestrange's borrowed wand as soon as she could find a suitable replacement. But the ash wand was quite powerful, and she'd come to appreciate its abilities.

She hoped it was up to the task which lay ahead of her.

She'd just begun to move toward Pansy when she stopped at the distinctive _cr-ack!_ of a person Apparating. Severus popped into existence a few feet inside the front door, then stared down at his erstwhile charge in some consternation.

"Miss Parkinson?" Apparently Severus was surprised enough by Pansy's appearance that he'd forgotten to refer to her by her married name.

Pansy's eyes widened. "Professor Snape!"

"We have a situation, Severus," Hermione said. "Lucius -- "

"I see the situation must have degenerated," he cut in. "It is often thus, just before the end."

"The end?" Pansy repeated. "You can't mean -- "

His voice softened a fraction. "The mind strikes out once last time before it falls into complete ruin. We must go at once."

Hermione had thought perhaps to fetch her cloak but realized that would only be another costly delay. "How do we fight him, Severus?"

"I'll let you know when we get there. For now -- to Malfoy Manor."

He grasped Pansy by the arm and Disapparated at once, leaving Hermione to curse under her breath and then do the same. As she did so, she prayed he had the same destination in mind -- the front entry to the Malfoys' manor house.

Her prayers were answered. As she emerged a few feet away from those forbidding double doors, she saw Severus already standing on the top step, wand out. A quick "_Alohomora!_" and he was inside, Pansy at his heels.

As soon as they were standing in the foyer, Hermione could hear hoarse screams from somewhere above. Pansy's face went even more pale under its layer of bruises and blood.

"At least she's still alive," Severus said. "There must be some small part of his mind that remembers who she is."

"Severus, what are we to do?" Hermione asked. "Beyond casting every Shield charm we know?"

"That will do, for a start." His lips thinned. He lifted his chin, his nostrils flaring, like a hound scenting blood. "We must get her out of there."

"And Draco," Pansy said. "Who knows what he's done to Draco?"

Good question. Well, very soon they would find out.

Her fingers tightened around her wand. "Let's go."

The large bedchamber where Lucius and Draco were housed looked as if every poltergeist in a twenty-mile radius had gone on a rampage in there. The hangings had been torn from the beds, and broken bric-a-brac lay scattered over everything. Even the coffered ceiling overhead appeared gouged, as if enormous teeth had somehow gnawed at it.

All these details Hermione registered in a flash, along with a quick glimpse of Draco still lying in his bed, although the heavy bed-hangings had fallen on him and therefore hid most of his form. From her vantage point in the doorway, she couldn't tell if he still breathed or not.

Then she had no time to think of anything else, for the huddled mass of dark velvet in front of the fireplace, which she belatedly realized was Narcissa, moved and hissed, "It's coming!"

Without thinking, Hermione gasped, "_Protego totalum!_" Off to her left, she heard Severus do the same, Pansy's voice a hesitant echo of the unfamiliar words.

A gust of cold wind. Pressure, an agonizing weight that beat against the charm she had cast and somehow made the breath strangle in her throat. And a sensation of malice she'd never thought she'd experience again, now that the Dark Lord had been vanquished.

It was a contest of will against will -- Lucius' disembodied energy pushing against the mental shield she'd constructed. She'd quipped to Severus a few days earlier that she was the irresistible force and he the immovable object. Now she realized she faced a truly irresistible force. How long could she hold?

_Long enough to fight back_, she thought fiercely. "_Confringo!_"

A gout of virulent magenta shot forth from the end of her wand in the direction of the choking force. The pressure eased somewhat.

"Nicely done, Miss Granger," said Severus. He lifted his own wand and thrust it toward the disembodied entity like a fencing champion initiating a lunge. "_Evanesco!_"

An ear-splitting howl, followed by ominous silence. The sensation of being flattened by an impossibly heavy object disappeared.

Hermione sucked in a breath. "Is that it?"

Severus did not lower his wand. "We are in uncharted territory. None of my research ever revealed exactly how our forebears dealt with cases of advanced Scarbury's."

This comment was apparently lost on Pansy. She cried out, "Draco!" and ran to the bed where her husband lay, then flung aside the heavy velvet curtains that all but obscured him. He didn't move, but Pansy must have found some signs of life, for she let out a relieved little cry and laid her head on his chest.

Still wary, Hermione picked her way through the broken furniture and knick-knacks that littered the floor, and then kneeled down next to Narcissa. The older woman stared up at her through tangles of pale blood-matted hair.

"He's not gone, you know," she remarked, in tones so cool one might have thought she was discussing her preference for milk or lemon in her tea. "Did you really think it would be that simple?"

Choosing to ignore the question, Hermione said, "We're going to get you out of here, Mrs. Malfoy. Can you stand?"

"He broke my leg. I felt it snap when I hit the fireplace screen." These words were uttered in that same calm, dispassionate voice, as if Narcissa spoke of injuries not her own.

Perhaps she was so traumatized she'd broken with reality. Hermione knew such things could happen. She also knew that Narcissa should be taken to St. Mungo's, along with Pansy and Draco, and the hell with the need for secrecy that had kept them isolated this long.

It came then, a shrilling shriek like some sort of demonic train whistle. The hair at the back of Hermione's neck lifted and she whirled, wand out.

Severus was even faster. "_Expecto Patronum!_" he spat, and the graceful figure of a doe leaped into the air at the center of the room.

It hung suspended in mid-air for a second, and then Hermione saw it rocked by a massive blow that surely would have killed it had it been a living creature. But the Patronus held, acting as a shield between the fury of Lucius' Scarbury-destroyed mind and her. It did not escape her notice, even as she murmured another Shield charm just to be safe, that the unseen energy had targeted her, the Muggle-born, first.

"Get them out of here!" Severus rasped. His arm shook as he held his wand extended. Hermione felt rather than saw the line of power connecting the wand to the doe form that hovered in the center of the chamber.

"Severus, I can't leave you -- "

"You can, and you must. I cannot save Lucius, but Draco is not beyond help, and Narcissa needs a healer."

Hermione opened her mouth to protest one last time, then pressed her lips into a thin line worthy of Severus himself. Logic told her that although she might be highly skilled, he was the stronger wizard. And really, Disapparating didn't take all that long. She could be off to St. Mungo's and back here within a minute or so. Surely that would be all it took?

"Pansy," she called out. "Can you Disapparate to St. Mungo's with Draco?"

"I -- I think so," Pansy replied. Then she bent down and slipped an arm under her husband's limp form. Voice a little stronger, she added, "Yes. Yes, I can."

With a strength Hermione hadn't thought she possessed, Pansy lifted Draco and spun away, Disapparating into the night.

"They're away," she whispered to Narcissa. "We must go."

"Lucius -- "

"Severus will take care of Lucius." What exactly that meant, she didn't know for sure. She could only trust in her lover's strength and his immense capacity for survival.

Mimicking Pansy's movements, Hermione slipped an arm around Narcissa and staggered to a standing position. The older woman felt frail as a nymph, every bone discernable through her meager flesh. Hermione thought she probably could have lifted her even without magical assistance.

The Patronus still held, although its light had begun to appear a little less bright. Severus' face was taut with effort, the lines of his jaw in sharp relief against the high collar of his shirt.

"Severus -- "

"Go!" he roared.

Only time for a single despairing, "I love you," before Hermione clutched Narcissa to her and then Disapparated.

The shrieks ended abruptly, and the dingy waiting area of St. Mungo's materialized around her. Although the rest of the hospital was guarded by anti-Apparition spells, Apparating was allowed in the waiting room -- mostly because some medical emergencies were so dire that one simply couldn't afford to wait go through the process of addressing the faux mannequins in the display area out front. However, visitors were required to exit the normal way, through the front door.

"A little help!" Hermione called out, setting Narcissa down on one of the wooden chairs as best she could.

Across the room several healers were already clustered around Pansy and Draco. As she watched, one of them transferred him to a floating stretcher that waited nearby, while the second healer turned and came over to her.

"What do we have here?" he asked.

"Broken leg, other contusions," Hermione replied. She decided it wasn't necessary to explain that the damage had been done by a rampaging invisible monster driven by Lucius Malfoy's diseased brain. Although she'd only been in St. Mungo's for a scant minute, it already felt to her to be far too long. She had to get back to Severus.

"Damaged how?" the healer inquired, apparently deciding he needed to take a complete history right now.

"Look, does it matter? This is Narcissa Malfoy, and that is her son you've just carried out on a stretcher. They're both wizards and need to be admitted. And I have to go."

He opened his mouth once again, but Hermione had already turned away. She had just taken a few steps toward the exit when the other door to the waiting room opened, the one that led into the hospital proper. In strode the last person she had expected to see there.

Harry Potter.

For a second she could only gape at him. His eyes widened with surprise behind his spectacles, and he said, "Hermione! What are you doing here?" He looked past her and saw Narcissa being helped onto a second stretcher. "What happened?"

"There isn't time!" she snapped, her words an unconscious echo of Pansy's. Perhaps later she might ask Harry the same question. He didn't look overly worried, so she thought he must be here on Auror-related business, and not because something was wrong with Ginny or the baby. "I must get back to him!"

"Get back to who?"

"Severus! I left him there, fighting Lucius, and if I don't get back right away -- "

Harry crossed the waiting room in a few quick strides, then grasped her by the upper arms. "Why would Professor Snape be fighting Malfoy? I thought they were old mates."

The sneer in Harry's voice did little to improve Hermione's state of mind. She wrested herself from his grasp and said, "Because Lucius has lost his mind from Scarbury's!"

"From what?"

"The disease we were researching!" Oh, why did he have to be asking foolish questions? Every lost second could mean -- "Harry, I really don't have time for explanations. You saw the research we were doing. This disease has made Lucius dangerously mad, and I left Severus there with him to bring Narcissa here. I can't spare another moment!"

"So much worry over a simple research partner?" Harry inquired. His eyes looked very green behind their protective glass lenses.

"Yes!"

He stared down into her face for a few agonizing seconds. Then his own features twisted as he somehow caught the lie in her expression. Or perhaps he really had picked up a bit of Legilimency after all.

"You lied," he said. "You were lying when you told me you and Snape were only working on a cure together."

Goaded, she retorted, "Yes, I was lying! Is that what you want to hear? He's more to me than you could ever know. And he could be dying right now while you stand here and put me through the third degree!"

No time to stay and watch rage turn to disgust. At the moment she didn't give a pile of Galleons what Harry Potter might think of her relationship with Severus Snape. She turned and bolted for the door of the waiting room. There was an alley only a few yards away where she could Disapparate safely.

She heard feet slapping against the pavement, and looked over her shoulder to see Harry exit the building just a pace or so behind her.

Safely inside the alley, she said, "You can't stop me, Harry."

"Putting yourself in danger -- for him! Have you ever thought maybe you should just let it go? The world might be a better place."

The sound of her hand striking his cheek was shockingly loud. She hadn't even realized she meant to hit him until she had done so. He recoiled, even as she spat out,

"How dare you? How dare you even suggest I should just leave Severus to his fate? Have you completely lost your mind?"

He said nothing for a few seconds. The imprint of her hand stood out on one cheek like a pale red tattoo. He stared down at her as if really looking at her for the first time in a long while. Finally, he began,

"Hermione, I -- "

"I love him, Harry. I don't have time to tell you every reason why, but I do. So let me go, or do you want to force me to mourn the loss of another good man?"

A spasm crossed his features as she said the words "another good man," but he appeared to gather himself before saying, "No -- I -- No, I don't. But I don't understand -- "

"You don't need to understand," she replied, and stepped backward, giving herself enough room to safely Disapparate back to Malfoy Manor. As she left, though, she had the distinct impression she'd heard another _cr-ack!_ just before she left the alleyway.

Her hearing hadn't betrayed her. She came down on the Malfoys' top step with a distinct thud, and then heard someone else fall into place behind her. Harry hurried up the stairs to stand at her side, then pushed the door inward. He gave her an incongruous grin. "Well, what are you waiting for?"

Relief surged through her -- relief that Harry had apparently decided to put aside their differences for now, and relief that she wouldn't have to face a rampaging Lucius Malfoy alone.

"Shield charms seem to work," she said, throwing the words over her shoulder as she hurried up the steps to the first floor. "Severus banished him for a bit with an Evanesco, but it didn't hold. And the Patronus works as a shield as well."

But for how long? She didn't know. It felt as if she'd been gone forever, but the Muggle watch strapped to her wrist told her it had only a little more than five minutes since she'd Disapparated with Narcissa in her arms. Still, a very great deal could happen in that span of time….

They burst into the room Draco and Lucius had shared and found --

-- nothing.

No sign of Severus. The room seemed in even greater disarray, if that were possible.

Hermione felt her heart lodge in her throat, but somehow managed to call out, "Severus!"

Silence.

Harry strode past her, looking from side to side. "Whatever happened, it looked as if they both put up a hell of a fight."

He couldn't be gone. She wouldn't let herself believe that. He had to be in here somewhere, hiding perhaps, or concealing himself with a Disillusionment charm to fend off the roving attacks of Lucius' broken mind.

"Hermione!"

She whirled and saw Harry standing over the bed that Lucius had occupied. "I think you'd better come over here."

The bed was only about ten feet away, but to Hermione it felt more like a hundred miles. She walked slowly, her booted feet crunching on bits of broken porcelain and glass. It couldn't be. She wouldn't let herself think that something had happened to Severus. They had to have come back in time. How could she face the thought that another man she loved might have gone down into the dark without her?

Harry had a peculiar expression on his face. Disgust? Relief?

"Look," he said, and twitched back the bedcovers.

Lucius Malfoy's livid face stared up at them. His sightless eyes seemed a sea of red; broken blood vessels obscured their true color. His face was likewise suffused with dark, dead blood, as if he had finally suffocated at the last.

"Is he -- " She didn't know if she trusted herself to say the word.

"Dead? Very?" Just to be certain, though, Harry reached down and laid two fingers against the pale bruised throat. He waited a few seconds, and shook his head, then immediately lifted his hand. "I have no idea what happened, but he certainly isn't a threat to anyone anymore."

Hermione couldn't allow herself to feel any relief. How could she, when Severus was nowhere to be found?

"Severus!" she called out again.

"Professor Snape!"

She and Harry shared a bewildered glance.

"I don't think he's here," she said. "But just to be sure -- "

Breaking off, she dropped to her knees and peered under the tall bed. Nothing to be found there but a few storage trunks. A few feet away, Harry did the same thing with the bed Draco had once used.

"Nothing," he said.

How could Severus have just disappeared like that? Worry was a rapidly rising sickness in her throat, but she choked it back even as she stood. It had to be something else, something she had overlooked. She refused to believe he was gone.

"Maybe he just left this room for some reason," she suggested. "Let's search the rooms on this floor."

Harry nodded. "All right."

They exited the bedchamber and went first to the room on the right, which looked to be Narcissa's. At least, the long pale hairs caught in the brush which lay on the dressing table seemed to be a telltale clue as to the room's owner. Everything was very neat and clean, a startling contrast to the disarray in the chamber next door.

No sign of Severus in the room beyond that, either, which under other circumstances might have been a pretty sitting room of some sort with tall windows designed to let in an abundance of sunlight. But of course now all that could be seen behind the diamond-shaped panes was a thin, uncaring moon and an expanse of black sky.

They had just emerged from the sitting room when the air split with a sudden _cr-ack!_ and the Malfoys' house-elf materialized in the corridor in front of them.

"No visitors!" he squeaked, glancing around with terrified green eyes. "The Master is indisposed."

_The Master is dead, poor thing_, Hermione thought. She tried to make her tone as gentle as she could, and asked, "Withy, have you seen Professor Snape? A friend of your master's -- a tall man with black hair and wearing black robes?"

If possible, Withy looked even more frightened. "Withy did nothing to him!"

"Of course you didn't," she said, in reassuring accents. She shot a quick puzzled look at Harry. Now, why would the house-elf think they might suspect him of wrongdoing?

"That other man made me put him down in the dungeon," Withy squeaked. "I didn't want to -- I know the Master had been friends with him long ago -- but he threatened Withy, he did."

This jumble of pronouns did little to relieve Hermione's anxiety. "What other man?"

"The one who came to see the Mistress from time to time. She didn't think I knew, but Withy sees everything."

Narcissa's peccadilloes were of very little interest to Hermione. "But the black-haired man is down in the cellar? Can you take us there?"

"He -- he said not to go near him -- "

Harry spoke for the first time. "Withy, I'm Harry Potter -- "

"Master Potter! Who saved the family name?"

His eyes glinted with a sudden grim humor. "The same. Now, don't you think the person who put in a good word for your Master and Mistress has only your best interests at heart?"

Withy blinked. "Of course, Master Potter. This way, then."

And he led them down the steps to the ground floor, and then through the great entry hall into an equally cavernous chamber that must be the dining room. On past there to the kitchens, and finally down a dark, narrow stair. Hermione's pulse began to beat in a nervous little staccato as she descended the steps. The place smelled damp and cold, and all too familiar. Once upon a time, she had been held prisoner here as well.

The last cell on the left had its door closed.

"_Alohomora!_" Hermione cried, and the padlock that held it shut opened and fell to the ground.

Inside, in a crumpled mass of black fabric, Severus lay on the narrow wooden bench. A streak of dark blood trailed across his face.

She let out a cry and ran to him, sinking to her knees on the dusty stone floor. At her touch he groaned slightly.

Alive, thank God, even if he was injured.

"Severus, can you hear me?"

Another moan, this one in slightly affirmative accents. His hand reached out to touch hers, and he gripped her fingers with a touch that felt reassuringly strong.

"Careful," he said, and attempted to sit up.

"Don't," Hermione said. "Let me help you."

"No time." He pushed himself upright and looked past her to stare on Harry with unbelieving eyes. Then he blinked. "He could come back."

"He who?" Harry demanded.

"I believe he was referring to me," said a mild voice from the corridor beyond.

Hermione felt her own eyes widen. It couldn't be. It wasn't possible.

Miles Cornish, her supervisor, stood outside, watching them with a coldly amused glance, a businesslike black wand clenched in his hand.


	24. Healing

I told you this update would be much faster. Thank you to everyone for your lovely reviews, and your well-wishes for my family. Only an epilogue after this -- I promise it doesn't take place on Platform 9-3/4, but someplace a little farther away. ;-)

* * *

Chapter 24: Healing

"M-Miles?" Hermione stammered.

"Hello, Hermione," said Miles, calm as if he were merely giving her his standard good-morning greeting. "Wands down, everyone."

She cast a quick glance at Severus; he nodded the tiniest fraction. Harry looked as if he'd just been hit by the wrong end of a Quidditch bat, but then he knelt and laid his wand down on the cold stone floor of the cell. With a sigh, Hermione did the same.

Miles smiled. "Excellent. So much better if we can avoid any more unpleasantness." His smile dimmed slightly.

"Unpleasantness!" she burst out. "When you just murdered Lucius Malfoy!"

Her supervisor's faded tea-brown eyes widened a bit. "I? Oh, no, Hermione, I'm afraid you must look to Professor Snape here to find your murderer."

He had to be lying. She glanced down at Severus, but he merely raised an eyebrow and then hitched himself up to a more or less sitting position. Then he spoke.

"I did put Lucius out of his misery, but I doubt anyone would call that murder. A mercy killing, if anything."

His tone was cold, dispassionate. He might have been referring to the death of a stranger, not a man he had once counted his friend. But he had said Lucius was coming to the end of his life, that the disease had run its course and there was nothing left to do. Judging by the way the sample of his blood had disintegrated, Hermione guessed that was the simple truth. No one could have lived for long with his cells in such a state of deterioration. Still, how terrible that Severus must be the one to end Lucius' life, even if death in such cases was a kindness.

"Strange mercy there, Professor," Miles said. Then he shrugged, and an incongruous twinkle glinted in his eyes. "But I shan't argue with you, seeing as you did me a great favor."

"A favor?" Hermione demanded, even as Harry made a disbelieving noise. "Why would you want Lucius Malfoy dead?"

"Why, indeed." Miles inspected the sleeve of his tweedy brown robes, flicked off a speck of lint, then said, "My congratulations, by the way, for solving the mystery. I thought for sure even a witch as clever as you would have a difficult time discovering the true reason for the Muggle attacks in the area."

She ignored the underhanded compliment. "So you thought you could cover it up by having me botch the investigation? For surely, if Hermione Granger-Weasley couldn't get to the bottom of the mystery, then that must mean there was no foul play involved!"

"Again, let me congratulate you on your insight. Yes, that was the plan. To be sure, I underestimated Narcissa's loyalty to Lucius, even when his mind was gone and he could no more be a husband to her than the mattress upon which he lay."

"Narcissa Malfoy?" Harry interjected. He still wore that expression of dogged disbelief, as if his brain resolutely refused to accept the fact that Miles Cornish -- mild, beige Miles -- could have anything to do with covering up an investigation…or anything to do with the icily beautiful Narcissa.

"Yes," said Miles. "Thirty-odd years is perhaps a long time to carry a schoolboy crush, but there you have it. And I really did nothing so terrible, Hermione, so you might as well stop with the outraged expressions."

Besides her, Harry muffled what sounded like a very small chuckle. Even the corner of Severus' mouth twitched.

Oh, of all the --

"It _is_ terrible, Miles," she retorted. "You purposely meddled with an official Ministry investigation. You allowed innocent Muggles to be wounded and made no real effort to stop it. You did everything you could to make Lucius' illness run its course so you could be with Mrs. Malfoy. Did you ever stop to think she could be hurt? And was? Why, she could be dead if Sev -- Professor Snape and I hadn't come along when we did!"

"And I do thank you for that," Miles replied, apparently unruffled by her condemnation. "Truly, I did underestimate the violence Lucius was capable of. There are so few surviving records on Scarbury's, as no doubt you know."

"The level of violent mental activity correlates to the strength of the wizard," said Severus. He fixed Miles with a contemptuous stare. "Lucius was always quite strong. But I'm guessing you knew that already."

The expression of mild good humor abruptly faded from Miles' countenance. "He made it clear enough that my interest in Narcissa was unwelcome." He straightened then, and fixed them all with a glare that might have been frightening on someone else's face but on his features only succeeded in looking comically out of place. "But none of this addresses what we should do next."

"Well, let us go, of course," Harry said, his tone the very epitome of friendly reason. "After all, if Hermione and I both disappeared, there would be quite the hue and cry, wouldn't there? And despite her outraged sense of propriety, you really didn't do anything so awfully wrong, did you? I'm sure we can smooth it all over."

Oh, that was really too much. Hermione rounded on Harry, her lips parting to deliver all sorts of commentary on breach of trust and ethics in the workplace. As her eyes met his, however, he gave the tiniest shake of his head and glanced downward. He had his left hand resting casually in the pocket of his trousers, although she couldn't think why. It wasn't as if he carried another wand.

Or did he? She had no way of knowing, but despite all the words she wished to say, she managed to remain silent.

"Very reasonable of you, Harry," Miles said. "No reason why we can't all let this go? After all, no real harm done -- save to poor Lucius, but as the good Professor here has already accepted responsibility for that act, we can just leave that aside for now."

"You are one to prate of 'responsibility,'" Severus replied. He made no attempt to curb the sneer that pulled at his mouth. "You, who hid behind bureaucracy to cover up your misdeeds. Do continue to delude yourself -- I look forward to the day when Narcissa delivers the rebuff you so truly deserve. As if you ever had a chance with her!"

At this remark, delivered in Severus' best cutting tones, Miles scowled, and raised his wand. "I would take care if I were you, Professor. The wizarding world already believes you dead. Killing you now would only set the record straight once and for all."

At once Hermione took a step forward, and Miles added, "Truly, Hermione, I wish you no harm. But innocent bystanders do have a way of getting hurt."

Desperately, she said, "Miles, violence solves nothing. I -- "

But she had no chance to finish the sentence, for as Miles shifted his gaze toward her, Severus raised his hand, pointed at her supervisor, and snapped, "_Sectumsempra!_"

A bleeding gash opened along Miles' pale forehead, and he staggered. Harry took advantage of his momentary distraction to cry out, "_Accio_ wand!" The holly stick leaped up into his outstretched fingers, even as Hermione called her own wand to her hand.

Their voices rang out in unexpected harmony. "_Stupefy!_"

And Miles, hit by both stunning spells at once, fell down in a heap on the hallway's dirty stone floor.

Her eyes met Harry's, and he flashed her a quick grin. Maybe they weren't the legendary trio anymore, but they could still manage a damn good spot of teamwork when necessary.

There was a _cr-ack!_ and another, and two black-robed Aurors popped into existence in the corridor just a few feet away from Miles Cornish's prone form. One of them looked down at him and remarked, "Looks like we're a little too late."

"Just a bit," Harry agreed.

He drew his hand from his pocket. On his palm lay a round, brass-cased mirror almost identical to the two-way mirror Miles had given Hermione a few weeks earlier. This one looked slightly different, though; she saw a largish red button sticking out from one side.

She raised an eyebrow.

"Panic button," Harry explained. "We upgraded these about six months ago and gave the older models to Magical Law Enforcement."

The device explained the sudden appearance of the Aurors. Hermione nodded, then, recovering herself, moved over to where Severus sat, still propped up against the wall. Perhaps now she could finally discover the extent of his injuries.

Harry's gaze followed her. "Nice work, Professor," he said. "I didn't know that spell could be performed without a wand."

"I'm sure there are a good many things you don't know, Potter," Severus replied, although the comment was curiously lacking in its customary bite.

"What should we do with this one?" cut in one of the Aurors, the one with the long ponytail. Hermione thought his name might be Williamson, but she couldn't recall. He prodded Miles' unconscious form with the tip of silver-buckled black boot.

"Take him back to the Ministry," Harry said at once. "Definitely obstruction of justice, possibly tampering with an investigation, and most likely unlawful coercion of a house-elf." He flashed a quick grin at her as he said this last; it had taken a good deal of lobbying on her part to make intimidation and bullying of house-elves a punishable offense.

Hermione thought one could most likely add conspiracy to the list of offenses Harry had just enumerated. Then again, she didn't know for certain whether Miles and Narcissa had worked together, or whether he had acted on his own. The evidence they had against him was quite enough to remove him from his Ministry post, if perhaps not worthy of a sentence in Azkaban. That would be for the Wizengamot to decide, and for once she was glad to hand off a sticky problem to someone else.

After all, Miles had apparently acted out of love for Narcissa. Whether that love was misguided or misplaced, Hermione couldn't say. She only knew that she had probably exercised poor judgment of her own in coming to terms with her love for Severus. Oh, nothing as bad as allowing innocent bystanders to get hurt while Lucius' consciousness roamed about the countryside, but still, who was she to find Miles Cornish guilty of his crimes?

She reached out to touch Severus' face, to push back the heavy black hair and see the deep cut that ran from temple to jaw along the left side. Time to have that taken care of. Time to get away from here, from a place that smelled of damp and pain and disappointed hopes.

"We need to get to St. Mungo's," she said, as much to Harry as to Severus.

Williamson looked past Harry to Hermione. His gaze narrowed as it landed Severus Snape's hunched form. "Isn't that -- ?"

But she didn't wait to hear the rest of the question. She held Severus close to her, and Disapparated once more to the safety of the wizard hospital's waiting room.

* * *

Of course he protested. Of course he told Hermione in no uncertain terms that a stay in hospital was quite unnecessary. She would have expected no less of him.

"After all," she said, after drawing up a chair to his bedside and trying not to grin at the incongruous sight of Severus Snape in a white linen hospital gown, "you did get quite the knock on your head, in addition to that wound on your face. Besides, it's just overnight for observation."

He scowled at her. "A very minor bump, I assure you. It certainly does not require this -- this -- " And he plucked at the sleeve of the gown in obvious distaste.

"Stop being a baby."

"Miss Granger, you overstep yourself."

She lifted an eyebrow in what she hoped was a fair imitation of his familiar expression. "Do I?"

For a few seconds he glared at her, and then a very dour smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "You are rather enjoying this, aren't you?"

An answering smile lifted her own lips. "Perhaps."

How could she tell him that it made her happy just to see him part of the wizarding world again, even if it was only within the walls of St. Mungo's? His return from the dead had been greeted with everything from stares of outright astonishment to surreptitious sidelong glances taken when people thought he wasn't looking. Perhaps not the grand return she might have envisioned, but at least he couldn't hide away any longer and let the world pass him by.

He turned away from her for a moment and surveyed the rather bile-inducing seascape that hung on the wall. Of course, her opinion of its artistic merits might have something to do with the fact that the up-and-down movements of the painted waves conspired to bring on a feeling of faint seasickness.

"How is Draco?" he asked.

The abrupt change of subject erased her smile. She'd been hoping to deliver better news. "He's been stabilized. That is, he hasn't gotten any worse, but the healers can't seem to figure out how to bring him out of his coma." She paused, then asked, "Will he get any better?"

A lift of the thin shoulders beneath the hospital gown. "Difficult to say. I'll venture a guess that he won't get any worse, but whether he'll ever return to full capacity…." Another shrug.

"Well, once you're out of here we can begin to work on the cure again," Hermione said. She wasn't going to let it go. Not when they'd come so close. The healers had already said Severus could go home tomorrow morning.

"Perhaps."

"Perhaps?" She shook her head, not sure whether she had heard him correctly. "Of course we'll continue. We were getting so close!"

"So you say, but one successful experiment on one blood cell does not necessarily a cure make."

"I'm not saying it does, but certainly it's a step in the right direction."

What on earth had gotten into him? Negative he certainly could be, but she had never seen him being so defeatist.

He shifted on the bed so that he stared straight up at the ceiling, his profile harshly outlined against the pea-green walls. Finally he said, "I failed him."

"Failed whom?" she demanded. "Lucius? I thought you said there was nothing to be done for him."

"There wasn't."

She stood then and went to him, and took one of his cold hands in hers. "Then how could you fail him? My love, I don't want to use your own words against you, but I seem to remember you telling me once that Lucius did not deserve your pity." She recalled that he had told her much more than that : _Do not think I owe Lucius anything, except perhaps a wish that his end might be as prolonged and painful as mine would have been_….

There was no need to throw those words back in his face. No doubt he recalled them as clearly as she. She had probably already said too much.

He let out a short, humorless laugh. "It is an easy to thing to say when you are not faced with the ruin of a man who once had been your friend. In the back of my mind I had thought somehow I could restrain him, get him quiescent enough to cast some sort of stasis spell that would hold him until you and I had perfected the cure." Abruptly he sat up and turned toward her, pushing the bedcovers aside. At the same time he let go of her hand. "But I realized soon enough that such thinking was useless. His mind was broken. The only way to save myself was to destroy the connection between his body and his spirit."

Hermione ached to reach out to him, but she held herself still. It seemed clear to her that Severus was wrestling with his own demons regarding Lucius' demise; better that she allow him to do so with no interference on her part.

"He was stronger than I could have imagined. It has been postulated that in the terminal stage of Scarbury's the mind gathers up all of its unused energy, its unused magic, and directs it outward in a desperate attempt at survival." His hands knotted around one another, fresh scrapes and scratches standing out against the pale flesh. "The Patronus held him back just long enough for me to pull the covers over his face and cut off his air. His body was weak, even if his spirit was not. The end came quickly."

He shut his eyes, lashes stark against his bloodless cheeks. Hermione, aching for the pain he must be feeling, said, "There was nothing else you could have done."

His eyes opened then, and fixed her with a harsh black stare. "I know. And that is the damnable truth behind it all. I could do nothing." And he turned away from her, then pulled the covers up over himself. She could tell from the rigid lines of his back that of course he wasn't asleep, but he had made it clear that the interview was at an end.

She left Severus' room, throat tight with worry. He had not forgiven himself. The wound was too raw, too fresh. Perhaps in time --

"Hermione!"

Harry's voice stopped her, made her turn around with some reluctance. It wasn't that she didn't want to see him -- really, Harry had behaved much better in their confrontation with Miles Cornish than she had any right to expect -- but she desperately craved some alone time. Her eyes burned with exhaustion, and all she really wanted was to sleep. What with getting Severus settled in his hospital room and discussing Draco's condition with the healers and all the other flotsam and jetsam that had occupied the last few hours, midnight had come and gone without her even really noticing.

A smile seemed like too much effort, but she thought she managed a reasonably pleasant expression as she faced him. "Still here? I would have thought you'd have gone home hours ago."

He lifted his shoulders. "I wanted to talk to you."

And that was the last thing she really wanted now, another lecture from Harry as to the insanity of her relationship with Severus Snape. She couldn't think of a way to fob off Harry without being rude, so she waited, telling herself she owed him a chance to speak his piece.

"I -- " He appeared to gather himself, and shoved his hands in the pockets of his trousers before saying, "I wanted to say I was sorry."

If he had announced his intention to take up singing and appear on the next season of _Pop Idol_, she could not have been more surprised. "Sorry?" she repeated. It must be weariness that made her brain feel so sluggish, so incapable of processing his statement.

"I've been rather a beast, don't you think?" Now his expression turned rueful and a little embarrassed. "It's not my business what you do with your personal life. And you know -- " A blotchy flush touched his cheeks. "Professor Snape was kind of impressive, don't you think? To have taken care of Lucius and still manage to pull off a wandless spell like that even after he was injured?"

"Very impressive," she agreed. To her, even that was an understatement. Would any other wizard have been able to manage what he'd done? She still abhorred the Sectumsempra spell, although in this case she certainly couldn't argue with its results.

"So anyway -- I guess what I'm trying to say is you should do what makes you happy." He managed a laugh, although it sounded tinged with unease. "I won't say I really understand, but you're a smart girl. You know what you're doing."

Hermione thought of several replies, decided none of them were sufficient, and instead reached out and pulled Harry into a fierce hug. Until this moment she hadn't realized how much underlying worry she still possessed as to how he would handle her ongoing relationship with Severus. Knowing that Harry had given even a half-hearted blessing to their union had done more than she imagined to set her heart at ease.

He submitted to the embrace but pulled away after a minute. "Expect you're a bit done up," he said, his tone gruff. "So what's next?"

"Well, Severus has to stay overnight. He got a nasty knock on the head in addition to that slash down the side of his face. After that?" She paused, and wondered what exactly to say.

Yes, one enemy had been vanquished. There was still the larger issue of their research into Scarbury's to consider, not to mention the fact that she had no clear idea of exactly where her relationship with Severus was even headed. Yes, he had made a confession to her some time back that all he wanted was a place of his own, one with her in it, but what precisely did that mean? Did he expect her to take up residence in his lonely cottage in Yorkshire, or would he be willing to abandon his isolation and come live with her in Rosedell?

She said, somewhat startled at the admission, "I don't know."

* * *

The little machine whirred away, pulling dark blood up through a tube to a small glass tank. Once the tank was full, Hermione closed her eyes briefly, recalling again the careful symmetry of a healthy blood cell, the bright lines of the genetic markers for wizard ability delicate and lovely as a snowflake.

"_Reparo_," she murmured, moving her wand in a slow circle over the tank.

It had taken more than a week of skull-blinding work to get to the point where she could consistently visualize how those healthy cells should work. Severus had assisted, but he'd been forced to admit that she had a knack for it, while he somehow did not.

"Of course, that is to be expected from the brightest witch of her generation," he had said, his tone only half-mocking.

"And I would have expected more from the greatest wizard in Britain," she shot back, whereupon he'd taken her into his arms and kissed her quite thoroughly, quelling any further retorts.

He had not spoken of Lucius' demise since that dark night in St. Mungo's, and Hermione had decided to let the matter go. Perhaps it wasn't healthy to bury such things, but she knew that badgering him over it would do no good. One day he might finally find it in himself to speak to her of what he had seen as a failure. In the meantime, there was a great deal of work to be done.

Harry sent word that Miles Cornish had been fired from the Ministry but received only a suspended sentence, since it couldn't be proven that he had done anything worse than cover up key evidence in an official investigation. From his exile on the Isle of Wight he'd apparently sent pleading letters to Narcissa Malfoy, letters she had disposed of without opening.

Draco languished in hospital, with the faithful Pansy refusing to leave his side save for a quick bath and a bite to eat from time to time. To Hermione's great relief, Severus said nothing more about abandoning their research and instead flung himself into it with a fervor that matched hers. She wondered if perhaps he hoped to redeem himself by curing the son of the man he had been forced to kill.

Now she held her breath, watching as the cleansed blood flowed from the tank back into Draco's veins. Was it her imagination, or did the thin chest beneath the covers begin to rise and fall a little more noticeably? Too early to say for sure; she and Severus had determined that she could manage only two pints of blood at a time, and this was only the first batch.

Two healers hovered near her elbow, taking notes on her technique, while Severus was a watchful shadow at the foot of the bed. Narcissa and Pansy sat directly across from her, with Pansy holding Draco's right hand in both of hers. Hermione would have preferred to do this without an audience, but it was necessary that the healers learn how to perform the procedure on their own, and of course she couldn't have asked the Malfoy women to wait outside, not when they had waited and dreamed and prayed for this day.

Hermione hoped she wouldn't disappoint them.

"Ready for the next batch," she said, and the healer on her left lifted her wand ever so slightly, coaxing the blood up through the tube.

This time the warming flush that spread over Draco's face was immediately discernible. Pansy lifted her head and met Hermione's gaze, her dark eyes wide with terrible hope.

And again. And again.

The last drops of blood slid their way down the thin plastic tube -- procured with her parents' help, since of course no such Muggle technology had been available within St. Mungo's walls. The room was very quiet; Hermione fancied she could hear her own blood pulsing within the fragile confines of her veins.

Then Draco opened his eyes. He blinked, staring up at Hermione in some confusion, a puzzlement that only deepened as he caught sight of his former Head of House standing at the foot of his bed.

"Aren't you dead?" he asked. He sounded weak, but lucid enough.

Severus crossed his arms. "No more than you, Master Malfoy."

Pansy, who had remained rigidly calm this entire time, burst into tears and buried her face on Draco's chest, sobbing wildly. He lifted his arms and wrapped them around her as best he could, given the tubes protruding from his left forearm.

While Hermione understood Pansy's reaction, she couldn't help but feel that she was intruding on a very personal scene. Murmuring a polite apology to the healers, who stepped out of her way but maintained their post next to the bed, Hermione left the room, followed by Severus.

"Success," he said.

"It would seem so," she replied.

"You sound less than happy about it."

"Oh, I am. I'm happy for Draco and Pansy. They have a shot at a normal life now." As she said the words, though, Hermione couldn't help thinking, _And what of me? What of my life?_

For Severus had resolutely avoided any discussion of their future during the past week. Of course, the intensive work had left little time for personal discussions, and they had both been so weary that when they finally fell into bed they had no energy for anything except sleep.

Once he had been released from St. Mungo's, he returned to Yorkshire. Hermione had gone there as well; it only made sense, since his cottage was better equipped for their research then her own home at Rosedell. Although word of his survival had spread quickly from the wizard hospital to the Ministry and beyond, he had refused to speak with anyone except Hermione.

All in all, it had become clear to her that he had no intention of rejoining society. Could she live in the sort of isolation he seemed to crave?

Not that it mattered, since he had said nothing to her about what might happened once they completed their research.

He was silent for a moment. Then, unexpectedly, he reached out and took her hand. "Hermione."

She forced herself to meet his eyes. Whatever he had to say, she would face it squarely.

"We are done here, are we not?"

Not trusting herself to speak, she nodded. This was it, then. Never mind what he had said about wanting her in his life. He had had a taste of the wizarding world, and wanted nothing to do with it. She tried to tell herself she understood. All those years of isolation had only strengthened his solitary nature. It had been foolish, really, to think he could change himself so completely.

"Then let us go, you and I. Let us go where we can start over."

She found she still couldn't speak, but this time it was because of the rush of joy that welled up from somewhere deep within. Was it possible? Did he really just say he was ready to begin the rest of his life with her at his side?

His fingers tightened around hers. "Is it possible that the inimitable Hermione Granger is at a loss for words?"

"Yes," she said, then, "No. That is, no, I'm not at a loss for words, and yes, let's go away. Wherever you like. Now."

Then he leaned down and kissed her, kissed her thoroughly with no apparent care for the healers who passed by in the hallway, or the visitors there to see injured relatives and friends. Severus Snape kissed her, Hermione Granger, and her heart rejoiced at his boldness.

Whatever came next, they would be together. Always.


	25. Epilogue: Brave New World

And now we truly come to the end. Thank you to everyone who read this story -- thank you for your wonderful reviews, for your insights, and for your infinite patience with my not-so-regular update schedule. And if you're someone who's read along but never reviewed, perhaps now might be a good time to comment!

I'm going to take a little break from fanfic for a while, but I do plan to be back with another Snape story in November. Not SS/HG, but a story about him and Professor Sinistra. I do hope you'll join me for that one, too!

* * *

Epilogue: Brave New World

The house was a saltbox Colonial, set well back from the road. It sat on a generous plot of a little more than two acres.

"All the conveniences," said the realtor, her heels clicking on the wooden floor as she led Hermione down the hallway that connected the rooms at the front of the house with the kitchen in the back. "The owner is a Muggle, but he was very careful to keep the spirit of the house while updating the plumbing and wiring." She paused, then cast a surprised look over her shoulder. "Where is your husband off to?"

"He went outside," Hermione replied. "Inspecting the herb garden, I think. I did mention he runs a mail-order potions business, didn't I?" She felt it better not to tell Meg Bradshaw, the realtor, that Severus had informed her in no uncertain terms that he couldn't tolerate Ms. Bradshaw's studiedly cheerful presence for more than five minutes at a time.

"Besides," he'd added. "I care very little for the interior. I'm more interested in the grounds, and that shed out back."

Meg paused and considered Hermione's comment. "That you did."

"And the shed up in that little stand of trees?"

A flashing smile, revealing a row of unnaturally white teeth. Hermione would never have guessed the realtor was a proud graduate of the Salem Witches' Institute, but she was rapidly learning that this city possessed a peculiar mixture of the Muggle and wizarding worlds, one that was quite new to her experience.

"The owner had that built. He's a writer and used the shed for his work. But now Hollywood has bought one of his books for a movie, and he's off to California. It's set up as an office now, but I imagine your husband could easily convert it to a potions workshop. It's fully plumbed and has both gas and electricity."

Not that Severus required either of those for his work, but the improvements would make life easier. Really, the whole place was just about perfect. And the price seemed quite reasonable.

They entered the kitchen, which, like the rest of the house, was relentlessly up-to-date: stainless appliances, granite countertops, imported tile floor.

"May I just say how excited we are to have you here, Mrs. Granger-Snape? To have one of those who helped defeat He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named as our new Arithmancy teacher? Quite the coup for the Institute!"

Hermione managed an awkward smile. She'd been a little surprised to learn that her reputation had apparently preceded her. For some reason, she'd always been under the impression that her American counterparts didn't pay much attention to what was going on across the pond unless it involved Quidditch.

Really, the whole thing had just been an exercise in the power of coincidence. If she hadn't picked up that issue of _Witch Weekly_ and seen the small advert in the back that said _Arithmancy professor needed. Inquire Salem Institute of Witchcraft_, she and Severus might well still be back in Yorkshire, muddling along and trying to pretend everything was fine.

There'd been no question of staying at Rosedell; Severus had refused to live anywhere within a ten-mile radius of the Burrow. Secretly, Hermione had been glad to leave. It felt odd and somehow wrong to be with another man in the home she had shared with Ron. Worse, Molly had made little effort to conceal the anger and betrayal she felt at seeing her daughter-in-law take up with another man less than a year after Ron had died. The rest of the Weasleys took it a bit better, but the whole situation had felt awkward beyond words. Hermione had been glad to flee to Yorkshire, even if it meant sharing the cramped cottage Severus called home.

Even there it had been difficult. No one who had a habit of solitude as he did would take easily to having another person underfoot day in and day out, even if that person was the woman he loved. For herself, she had thought she wouldn't mind the isolation of her new home in Yorkshire, but it had begun to wear on her after only a few weeks.

Since she didn't know what else to do, she'd continued in her post at the Ministry. Even that had its drawbacks, not the least of which were the inquisitive stares she received from almost everyone, and the whispering she knew went on the second she left the room. To be sure, the whole situation must have looked very strange to an outsider. Hermione Granger, a widow of barely eight months, taking up with another man? And not just any man, but Severus Snape, her former professor!

She'd borne it as best she could. At least she had her evenings with Severus, where they could talk about the test for Scarbury's they were developing, or the new potion he'd thought of, or the wonderful news that Neville was going to be the next Herbology professor at Hogwarts after all.

At that revelation an odd expression had crossed Severus' face. Hermione couldn't quite puzzle it out. Surely it couldn't be envy?

"Do you miss it?" she asked. "Teaching, I mean."

His mouth had twisted. "Hardly. Not a day goes by where I don't give thanks that I'll never have to grade another first year's botched potions essay again."

And that appeared to be the end of the discussion. For herself, she felt a strange restlessness, as if she thought she should be doing something more. To be sure, her work for house-elves' rights was very important, but she had already made great strides, and the movement had begun to gain its own momentum. Even the research she'd continued with Severus in developing a screening test for Scarbury's felt strangely flat.

When she showed him the notice in the paper, she'd thought he would offer more protest. After all, it was one thing to move from one county to another, and quite something else to pick up and relocate in a whole new country.

But all he'd said was, "I didn't know you wanted to teach."

It was something she'd considered, back before things got serious with Ron. But teaching at Hogwarts while getting married and raising a family hadn't seemed terribly plausible. She'd known even then that Ron wanted to be an Auror. What life could they have had, with him based at the Ministry and she all the way up in Scotland at Hogwarts?

"I thought about it," she admitted. "But you know how life is -- "

He paused then, wand hovering over the cauldron that sat on the stovetop. His shoulders lifted, and he said, his tone laced with irony, "Indeed I do." A graceful wave of the wand over the cauldron, and the air in the cottage filled with the scent of damp earth and wet grass after a heavy rain. He added, "Moving to New England would give me an opportunity to work with an entirely new selection of flora."

After he made that remark, she knew he would offer no protest. No doubt he had felt the strain as well, the burden of cruel, casual gossip, of a past one couldn't entirely escape. Well, they wouldn't be the first to seek opportunity in the New World.

Meg Bradshaw watched her with speculative, heavily mascaraed eyes. Realizing she'd been woolgathering, Hermione blurted, "We'll take it."

Those eyes, bright blue against their rings of black liner, widened a bit. "But you haven't even seen the upstairs!"

"Three bedrooms, right?" Hermione asked, quickly recalling the particulars she'd read on the listing for the house. "One bath up, one bath down?"

"Well, yes."

"Then I think it will do very well for us."

Truly, the house was quaint and lovely and so peculiarly American in its contrast of state-of-the-art appointments with a house that was almost three hundred years old. Perhaps it wasn't the sort of place she'd envisioned when she first realized she would be sharing a home with Severus, but in many ways it was better. Although Salem was a good-sized town, here on the outskirts one could still feel alone. The forest marched its way right up to the border of the property. He would be able to spend many happy hours roaming through the woods in search of new potions ingredients.

"When would you want to move in?" Ms. Bradshaw asked. It was clear that she didn't intend to argue the point any further, not when she had an easy sale in her reach.

"As soon as possible. Would you have the paperwork ready by tomorrow morning?"

"Of course."

"And you'll be able to take payment in Galleons?"

The realtor smiled, showing off her perfect teeth once more. "Not a problem. We'll work with a Muggle bank, but we can change the money for you. I'll just need you both to sign the loan papers -- "

"Oh, we won't be getting a loan."

"Excuse me?"

Hermione repressed a smile of her own. "We're paying in cash." She didn't bother to add that five years of pension payments with nothing to spend them on added up to a great deal of money, especially when one considered Muggle/wizard exchange rates.

A blink. "Oh. Well, then, I -- " She appeared to gather herself. "That'll be great. You're going to love it here. The Institute is a wonderful school, and the Muggles sort of expect us to be, well, us, so it's quite relaxed. Since we're all playing at witches and witchcraft, no one seems to suspect us of being the real thing."

"The purloined letter technique?"

Another blink. "The what?"

"From the story by Edgar Allen Poe. The concept of hiding something in plain sight."

"Oh." Meg gave a rather nervous little laugh. "I suppose I should know that, with him being a fellow New Englander and all. But I really didn't do too much reading except what we had to study for school."

Hermione wondered just how good the Salem Institute could be if its students were so intellectually incurious. Then she recalled how near impossible it had been to get Harry or Ron to read anything that wasn't directly related to class…and sometimes not even then. Apparently some things never changed, even with an ocean separating the two schools.

"Well, no matter," she said firmly. "The house is perfect, and we would like to get moved in as soon as possible so we have time to get settled before the term starts. What time would be best to meet with you tomorrow morning?"

"Ten?" Ms. Bradshaw replied. She looked a bit thrown off by the abrupt change in topic, but with a hefty commission in sight she wasn't about to let herself get too distracted.

"Excellent. Do you mind if we stay behind and look over the property?"

"No…no. The front door is an automatic deadbolt -- it'll lock behind you after you let yourself out."

Hermione offered up another smile, and the realtor seemed to take that as a dismissal. She Disapparated with a _cra-ack!_ that echoed loudly off the granite and tile in the kitchen.

_I think that's the first time I've ever seen someone Disapparate in a skirt suit and three-inch heels_, Hermione thought, somewhat irrelevantly.

She went to the back door and opened it. A fresh breeze came down off the hillside, smelling of dry grass and unfamiliar wildflowers. "It's safe," she said.

Severus came around the corner of the house. Even the dark Muggle clothing he'd donned for their meeting with the realtor looked incongruous against the bright late summer day. "Well?"

"I told her I thought it was perfect. She's expecting us in her office tomorrow morning to finalize the transaction."

"And what if I thought it wasn't perfect?"

"Do you?"

A frown creased his brow, and then he let out a small chuckle. "No, I find it quite suitable. The office will suit me very well as a workshop once I've made some modifications. And the property offers the necessary privacy."

"Privacy? For what?"

He stepped closer. "For this."

And he reached out to her and drew her against him, brought his mouth against hers. This was how she knew it was all so right, even here, in a strange land, in a life she had never expected to live.

His arms went around her, and she was home.


End file.
